


it's a cruel summer

by imdeansgirl, quincywillows



Series: pour myself a cup of ambition [3]
Category: AMBITION (Series), Girl Meets World
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, F/M, Gen, M/M, i thank you for ur patience and understanding wranglers, it's a cruuuueeeelll summerrrrr, its just like AAA is its own thing now with its own lil fandom so... issa different thing, more AMBITION bonus content that's right, shout out to the tag wranglers... i apologize in advance for the weird double tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2020-12-24 11:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 65,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21098735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imdeansgirl/pseuds/imdeansgirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quincywillows/pseuds/quincywillows
Summary: Although AAA is not in session, stories continue to unfold during an unbearably hot and unforgiving summer in Manhattan.One chapter for each week of summer between sophomore year and junior year at Adams Academy for the Arts.





	1. break ( riley )

After the Confessions page makes its final checkmate move and turns the world upside down, it’s a bit insulting how time marches on as if nothing has changed.

Riley feels it most prominently when she returns to Adams on Tuesday morning. School usually seems a bit off in the last couple of days before summer recess—students itching for freedom just a breath away, teachers giving up on education and allowing whimsy to run wild, all of the pressure from the academic year wrapping up into a neat little bow—but this is unlike anything she’s ever experienced. She and her classmates are there, dutifully showing up for the last couple days of sophomore year, but it feels as though time has frozen.

They’re all there, but nothing is the same. It will never be the same again.

Well, perhaps stating that _all _of them are there is a bit of a stretch. Farkle unsurprisingly does not return to school for the last couple of days, his new reputation as the catalyst that brought the school crumbling down definitely giving him a valid excuse to try and escape it. Charlie is also a no-show, reportedly calling in sick despite the fact that he seemed in perfectly good health yesterday before his dirty little secret was blown to the entire school. In some ways Riley is grateful, because she doesn’t particularly want to see either of them at the moment. She doesn’t know what she would say if she did, so getting three months to ruminate on it is a nice allowance.

She’s far more concerned about the other absentee from the last couple days.

After his explosive exit from the black box on Monday, Lucas has more or less disappeared. He’s not in class come Tuesday, and he’s not in the booth when Riley goes to check. She figured he wouldn’t be, but she couldn’t help but hope the solution might be that simple. Her texts to see if he’s okay go unanswered. She wants to ask Isadora, but the aftermath of Farkle’s accusations in the meltdown video unfolds quickly and she’s effectively iced out from the techie crew by the time Tuesday rolls around.

She supposes she can’t blame them. Everything is heightened right now, and the dust has barely started to settle. As she departs from Triple A Wednesday afternoon, Riley convinces herself that in a few days things will start to right themselves again.

Only nothing changes. The distance provided to them by summer break gives everyone the excuse to hide from the problems that have cropped up in the last few days rather than confront it and fix it. Silence digs deeper trenches across party lines. Wounds that go untreated will only fester, and Riley can feel the cuts growing infected day by day.

She tries to distract herself, but there’s not much for her to focus on. She’s already trying to ignore the discussions of her parents and their impending split, and hanging out with Auggie quickly grows tiring when she’s answered another question about divorce for the tenth time in a week. There’s no Triple A assignment to occupy her attention. No problem she can tinker with that actually feels plausible to solve.

Hanging out with Zay might be nice, but he’s off to the Kossal program within the end of the week. And she wonders if it’s for the best, because he seemed sort of stressed himself given the _AAAC _events. She finds this odd considering Farkle hardly touched on him in his tirade, but Zay is on edge and restless with worry when they briefly hang out before he’s set to escape the city for a month. He’s practically glued to his phone, anxiously waiting despite how he doesn’t seem to be receiving a lot of messages that would indicate an active conversation.

But Riley knows she can’t judge him. Although her texts have gone unanswered, she spends her waking hours constantly on alert waiting for the telltale buzz of her phone to signal a breach in the embargo. Given how many messages she’s sent to Isadora, it feels like she _deserves _a response of some kind just to even the playing field.

It never comes. But in all honesty, she’s not the person she wants to hear from most anyway.

_Are you okay?_

_Lucas I’m sorry, none of what Farkle said was true. I had no idea_

_Please just let me know you’re okay_

The truth is, Riley isn’t even surprised. She isn’t surprised by the radio silence, because she knows Lucas well enough to know how this must be hitting him. It took her an entire year to earn the level of trust from him that she did, something most people never even get the chance to have.

For how long and hard it was for her to earn it, it’s impressive how quickly and easily she lost it.

_Can we please just talk about this?_

She just wants him to know that it wasn’t true. Spending time with him was never about charity. She never, ever once looked at him and saw someone worthy pitying. Lucas isn’t the kind of person to give off the appearance that he’s suffering, and she thinks he severely underestimates how convincing his devil-may-care attitude can be. She wishes he would stop underestimating himself in a number of ways—like how genuinely he captures her attention. That her wanting to be with him had nothing to do with a good deed and everything to do with how she feels like she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him since they actually talked for the first time.

On Friday, one week after the most magical evening of her life, she almost calls him. She almost calls him on impulse like the way she did last Saturday night, even though a week feels like years ago. Just to hear his voice, to hear that he’s alive, to know that even if he’s not with her at least he’s carrying on in spite of it. As much as she hates the possibility of him walking out of her life, at least she’d have the peace of mind of knowing he was okay.

She gets all the way to dialing his number, only chickening out when the ringing starts on the other end of the line. Then her subconscious gets the better of her, pointing out that if he wanted to talk to her he would’ve answered her texts. That she has no right to talk to him considering how effectively she broke his trust without even trying, so it’s pretty damn selfish of her to force a conversation out of him anyway.

It’s ironic, she has to think, how he’s so convinced their time together was pity when she’s certain that she’s the one who doesn’t deserve him.

When her phone finally does end its silence at the start of the next week, it’s impossible to hide her disappointment that it’s not his name lighting up her screen. But it’s not Isadora either, or even Zay, and the shock of who it is prompts her to pick up the phone despite how she decided she wanted to stay as far away from him as possible in the next three months.

“Hello?”

There’s a long pause. Then, uncertainly, Farkle speaks. “Riley?”

It’s strange to hear his voice. It’s a far cry from the pitch it was in the infamous video, timid and gravelly rather than his usual confident bark. She can remember how frazzled he seemed on Monday when the video made its debut, but honestly she was so stunned and absorbed in her own world order tumbling to ruins she hardly noticed the full spectrum of his reaction.

“Farkle? What do you want?”

“I’m so glad you picked up. You’re the first one who—I haven’t had a lot of luck—,”

“Is there something I can do for you?” She tries to keep the frustration out of her voice, but it’s difficult. “Otherwise, I have dinner in a few minutes, so—,”

“Riley, I never meant for that video to go live,” he stammers. Then, a pause. “I mean, I did, but not that way. I meant it when I said it, but the moment I sent it… it didn’t feel the way I thought it would. The fact that everything happened the way it did, I never meant for—,”

Riley knows how it feels to make mistakes. She knows how it feels to be ostracized, how it feels to become the odd one out, how hard it can be to be alone. She knows all of it, and she empathizes, but the battle scars she did nothing to earn make a painful counterargument to extending sympathy. Whereas she’s familiar with unfair treatment, Farkle brought this upon himself. He made the choices to destroy everything. Whether or not he intended to blow everything up, all she can think about is how his words ruined so many of her relationships in one foul swoop.

“But you still did it,” she snaps. She feels tears well in her eyes, the ones she’s done a good job of holding back since the end of the world. “And you decided that everyone had to go down with you.”

“I know. I wasn’t thinking—,”

“Oh, trust me, I know. You were running your mouth, saying plenty about things that had nothing to do with you. That you knew nothing about.”

Farkle can obviously tell this conversation isn’t going the way he hoped. “Riley...”

She knows what he wants from her. He wants her to tell him that it’s okay, that things will be okay. She’s smiley Riley after all, the one everyone goes to when they want to feel better. The arbiter of hope, the one who puts the broken pieces back together, the nice, perfect friend and classmate and daughter that is always willing to forgive and forget.

Right now, she can’t find it in her to give. Not when she’s feeling the exact same isolation, even though she didn’t do anything to warrant it. She can’t stomach going through it all over again.

“And now we both have to face the consequences for it. So thank you, Farkle.” She feels a tear slip down her cheek, already feeling guilty for dismissing him even though he’s the one who owes her an apology. She rushes to wrap things up before she can cave and change her mind. “I hope you have a good summer.”

Riley ends the call before he has the chance to respond, waiting a few minutes to rein her emotions back in and calm her breathing. She dreads her phone buzzing with another call, but it never comes. She tries to wipe the interaction from her mind, certain that she’ll be doomed to repeat it over and over in her mind for the next three months. Despite what she wished him, she gets the feeling Farkle isn’t going to have a wonderful break.

For what it’s worth, she’s pretty sure she won’t be having a very pleasant one either.


	2. snip, snip ( asher )

Asher knows the summer is going to be rough when Lucas allows him into his apartment.

To be fair, he sort of knew it wasn’t going to be _pleasant_. Given how spectacularly things spun out of control in the final moments of the school year, he had no delusions about this summer being fun. He didn’t need to see Lucas’s reaction for himself to know that it wasn’t good. Isadora started to tell him about it when Lucas didn’t show up for the last two days, but he didn’t let her finish. He got the picture fast enough, and it felt distinctly wrong to imagine his bullish, brave best friend in any state remotely close to broken. Lucas would hate it if he did anyway.

It’s unfortunate, too, because Asher believed that all of this was leading to something good. When Riley Matthews showed up and started turning things upside down with her sunshine smile and unapologetic need to fix things, he really thought she was going to be the one to fix Lucas James Friar. Not that people can be _fixed_, let alone by another person, but never before had Lucas seemed close to considering that things could be better than the dark, damp cavern he’s built for himself. For whatever reason, Riley woke something up in him that made him realize life could be a lot _more_, regardless of how often he and Dylan have tried to tell him already.

Only now it’s ruined, and it feels like they’re back to square one. Maybe worse off, because if Lucas started to believe in something only for it to come back to bite him, Asher doesn’t see how he’ll ever be willing to believe in it again.

Lucas is a lot of things, but he’s not stupid—and above all, he’s highly practiced in the art of self-preservation. He has to be, Asher knows.

He just wishes he didn’t.

He’s pretty sure things are taking a turn for the worse when Lucas completely drops off the face of the Earth for the first week of the summer. He won’t answer either him or Dylan, and his input in the techie group chat goes silent. The only reason he knows he’s even alive is thanks to Isadora, who is the only person Lucas will see or talk with. The way she describes his general state isn’t much better than his vision of the booth on the day the world ended, so Asher leaves it be. He sends another message to Lucas letting him know that he’s there for him, Dylan does the same, and they leave it at that. He’ll see it eventually, and if he wants their company, he’ll let them know. There’s not much to be done otherwise.

At first, it seems like good news when they finally hear from him in the second week of summer. Despite his attempts not to worry, Asher’s whole mode of operation is based around overthinking. No amount of self-discipline or well-crafted Dylan distraction was going to keep his mind off their wayward friend for too long. So it’s a relief when he reappears in their group chat, acting surprisingly normal and trying to make plans for the next couple of days.

It’s a bit weird that he’s coming off so unbothered, but that’s not what tips Asher off to the likelihood of trouble. No, the dark cloud doesn’t loom over them until the day they’re set to go out together, Lucas nonchalantly explaining that due to certain circumstances, he needs them to pick him up at his place rather than down the block like usual.

“Well, do you think he’s dying?”

Despite his unique ability to make everything sound endearingly sincere, Asher knows Dylan’s question is more poking fun at his anxieties rather than a serious expression of concern. He’s trying to talk down his nerves as they drive back down to the East Village, the hot summer air morphing into its most grotesque form as a muggy rain settles over Manhattan.

Asher huffs, crossing his arms. “No, of course not.”

“Do you think he’s being blackmailed by the Russian mob?”

“No.”

“Do you think he has amnesia? Would that mean he forgot who we were? How did he know to text us if he forgot who we were?” Dylan gasps, eyes twinkling. “Spidey sense. He just _knew_ we were the ones. That’s next level, Ash.”

Given that he’s 100% saying all these things to earn one out of him, it’s a small victory when Asher smiles in spite of his mood. “No, he doesn’t have amnesia. But why he would let us come to his door rather than… I’m just saying, it’s weird.”

“Duh. Lucas has always been weird.” Dylan keeps his eyes on the road, dedicating extra focus to the task of driving due to the weather. He could probably drive the roads back and forth between his place and Asher’s with his eyes closed, but a well-trained awareness of how anxious his boyfriend can get even on a good day overpowers all other senses. “So am I. So are you! And with everything that happened, he’s probably gonna be a little off.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So we’ll pick him up, and go be bonkers together, and for a day all of us can just stop thinking about it. That’s what we’re here for.”

Asher knows he’s right. They’re Lucas’s best friends aside from Isadora, and while he’s with them he should be able to forget about everything else. That’s what they’ve always done, so that’s what they’ll continue to do. Nothing about that is going to change.

Still, he can’t fight the sinking feeling in his stomach that the universe has other plans.

When they make it to Lucas’s street, Dylan pulls off to the curb where he can and waits for Asher to text Lucas that they’ve arrived. It’s odd to be parked right in front of his building rather than a block away and out of sight. He supposes it could be the weather, but he can’t recall Lucas ever caring much about getting caught in adverse conditions before. In fact, there have been days in the past where they nearly begged him to let them pick him up at his door due to wind or ice or a downpour and he’s still insisted on keeping them at a distance. He’d rather be soaked or chilled to the bone than truly seen in the sparse interior of the apartment he hates.

Which only makes his response to Asher’s text even stranger.

_Caught up in something. Come up_

Asher finishes reading it before Dylan, turning to stare at him and waiting to see if his response is as bewildered as his. It evidently takes him a couple of reads to comprehend it, his brow furrowing in confusion before he lifts his head and looks out the dashboard window at the rain.

“What do you think?”

Dylan frowns slightly. “Think I gotta find parking.”

They round the block before the manage to find a place to pull off, ironically ending up about a block down the street. The rain only gets worse, and Asher finds himself kicking himself for forgetting to bring an umbrella. Dylan digs around in the backseat until he finds one of his discarded jackets from the spring, letting Asher pull it on in spite of his concern about his well being.

Dylan shrugs. “No sweat. As long as we book it, I’m eighty-two percent sure I won’t melt.”

So book it they do, Asher slamming the jeep door shut just as Dylan darts around the front of the car to meet him. He pulls up the hood of the jacket before reaching for Dylan’s outstretched hand, the two of them sprinting through the puddles forming on the concrete to duck under cover inside the first floor of Lucas’s building.

They don’t even have to buzz to get inside. The door is propped open by a mail bin, the two of them carefully slipping through the narrow opening and letting out an exhale as they return to dry land. Asher pushes the hood off his head and ruffles his hair while Dylan examines the address listings, the former coming over to join him and reading over his upper arm.

Although he’s never had the displeasure of meeting him—likely for good reason—it makes Asher’s skin crawl to read “K. Friar” on their plaque. He assumes he’ll be able to keep up his good luck, because he’s positive Lucas would’ve never let them come in if he were around.

Dylan taps the apartment number, raising his eyebrows at him. “Target acquired.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Asher says, grabbing his hand to keep him from darting up the steps. He makes him face him, nodding to his wet hair. “Shake.”

After a moment, Dylan understands the directive. He backs a safe distance from him before leaning over and shaking out his hair, at least making him less likely to leave a dripping trail behind them as they progress through the building. When he flips back upright, he holds his arms out and offers a toothy grin.

Well, it’s better. Dylan’s hair always looks like he went through a wind tunnel, and if Asher were really disturbed by it, he hardly thinks they’d still be together at this point.

“Very good,” Asher approves, gesturing him towards the stairs.

The two of them jog the four flights to Lucas’s floor, emerging into the fluorescent hall with perhaps the ugliest brown carpeting Asher thinks he’s ever seen. Quality of life is more influenced than environment than people realize, and he can’t help but think the residents of this building would benefit greatly from a landlord who cared more about interior design. A little color, a bit of remodeling…

“I think it’s this way,” Dylan says, pulling him out of his designer mode and back down to Earth. He nods, stepping past him and leading the way down the hall to the left until they reach the end.

Standing outside Lucas’s apartment door, Asher finds he’s hesitant to knock. For all the years they’ve been friends, Lucas has only ever let him inside his building a total of two times—once in the first floor entrance, and once in the entryway of his apartment. Considering how quickly they exited and how little an impression it left, the only reason he remembers it at all is because of how unprecedented it felt. There’s a sort of dread to the whole affair, a trained trepidation that surrounds the mystery of Lucas’s home dwelling because of how hard he works to keep everyone else away from it.

That, and the obvious cocktail of negative emotions that emanates off him whenever it comes up.

He feels Dylan nudge his lower back, drifting closer so his curious murmur is right in his ear. “You gonna knock, or what?”

He has half a mind to elbow him back, but then, he is the one standing with his fist ready to knock but not actually making any moves to do so. He clears his throat, stuffing his hands in Dylan’s jacket instead. He’s incredibly grateful there’s not a lot of junk hidden away in there—that’s not often the case with his boyfriend’s pockets. “Well, maybe we should text him. Give him a heads up that we’re here.”

“That’s what knocking does.”

“Yes, true, but like… a more subtle heads up.”

“Why does he need a subtle heads up when he invited us up in the first place?” He leans his head around Asher’s shoulder to make eye contact with him, always more convincing against his anxiety when he looks him in the eyes. “Hey, Asher. Knock-knock.”

Whenever he gets this close, it’s basically habit for Asher to kiss him. But given the setting and the circumstances, he figures he should keep things professional.

Doesn’t stop his eye roll, however. “Who’s there?”

“Us.” Dylan straightens up and promptly raps on the door with his knuckles, loud enough so whoever is inside is guaranteed to hear.

For a long moment, silence. Asher doesn’t think Lucas would lead them all the way up here just to pull some weird prank, but the lack of a response does make his heart beat a little faster in his chest. Dylan knocks again, giving him an uncertain look.

“Lucas? It’s Dyl and Ash.”

Another second of quiet, but it feels like an eternity. Then, Lucas’s voice muffled through the door offers them some reassurance.

“It’s open.”

Another tacit exchange passes between the boys. Asher feels hesitant to just barge into someone’s home, even with invitation, but Dylan holds no such qualms. Considering how often he just climbs into Asher’s bedroom window at night without prior announcement, his shame about waltzing right into spaces is virtually non-existent.

So he gives him a shrug, turning the doorknob and pushing open the peeling door to guide the way inside.

Although his shoulder blades are prickling, the apartment is nowhere near as grim as Asher expected it to be. No immediate danger presents itself, and all things considered the place looks rather ordinary. Shoes discarded in the small entryway, a comfortable enough looking couch within view in the living area. Aside from the perhaps poor lighting design that doesn’t allow for much natural sunlight, the biggest complaint he could lodge about its initial impression is that it’s cramped. Given the neighborhood they’re in, that’s hardly a surprise.

But as Dylan leads the march further into the room, other details begin to jump out at Asher that start to weave a different narrative. The living area doesn’t feel all that lived in—there’s no stray books or homework laying around, or a coffee mug left behind after a late night. There’s no typical objects that would bring people together, like a television or a stereo. Even the rug underneath their feet seems too well-maintained, as if people barely tread over it on any given day. It feels cold despite the muggy summer humidity, and he finds himself grateful for Dylan’s jacket.

There are no pictures on the wall. Sometimes he feels like he can’t look any direction in his house without seeing a picture of him or Lily, and the Orlando apartment is littered with school portraits and childhood drawings and family photos. If he didn’t know the fact to be true already, Asher could easily believe that the Friars didn’t even live here at all.

“Lucas?” Dylan repeats, swiveling around to try and find where he might be hiding. Asher inches towards the door at the closest end of the hall, assuming it’s his best friend’s only because of the cheap Fall Out Boy sticker slapped haphazardly on the edge of the door. “What’s going on, dude?”

“Just a second,” Lucas snaps, louder and closer than Asher anticipated.

He tilts his head to see a light on further down the hall, in what he supposes must be the bathroom. The door is open to let the light flood out, but if Lucas is making them wait then he thinks it would be smart to keep his distance until their host deems otherwise.

His gaze drifts back to the door in front of him instead. He’s gripped with a paradoxical feeling, a sense of insatiable curiosity harmonizing with an undeniable sense of foreboding. Dying to know what the bedroom of his mysterious, perpetually moody best friend is like, but absolutely positive he won’t like what he sees.

Dylan approaches from exploring the other end of the apartment, instinctively reaching to take his hand. This time when he leans in close to speak, the whispering is intentional. “It’s bleak in here.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“There’s no happiness,” he states. When Asher tilts his head to look at him, he feels an ache in his chest at the gloomy expression on his boyfriend’s face. “No one should have to live in a place that feels like this.”

While the rest of their peers are quick enough to write him off as simple, Asher knows that Dylan Orlando is far more complex than meets the eye. Sure, he’s goofy and energetic and great for a laugh, and that’s what makes him so lovable. But he’s also observant, and sensitive, and incredibly perceptive. He’s by far the most emotionally intelligent person Asher knows, and with that comes a heart custom built for empathy. If Dylan thinks that the Friar apartment lacks happiness, then he’s not going to question it for one second. It’s as good as an expert opinion.

Asher is well aware that his boyfriend is more than bad jokes and an unbelievably gorgeous smile, but sometimes he wishes it could be that simple. Because the fact that Dylan is capable of feeling so much more usually comes with unpleasant territory and painful reminders, like how much of his emotions are translated through how his eyes shine. They’re always pretty, but Asher has never liked seeing them accented with sadness.

However, the gloom doesn’t last long. It only persists so long as Lucas is out of sight, his entrance signaled not by a greeting but by the way Dylan’s features shift from pensive to stunned. From that alone, Asher can tell things aren’t going to be good before their friend even gets the chance to open his mouth.

Asher feels the shriek before he vocalizes it, pure terror rising up from his stomach and burning through his chest like wildfire. “Oh my _God_!”

It’s gone. Well, part of it. The good parts, apparently. Even when he blinks to try and make the image go away, the mangled mirage of his best friend is still standing there in front of him.

Lucas has always been attractive—in some ways damningly so, like he was put on this Earth to be dazzling and devilishly unattainable—but Asher can say with certainty that he’s never looked worse. It looks as though he took a pair of scissors and just started hacking away at his own hair, large sections of it missing or uneven. He looks deranged, and if he were still holding the scissors Asher would insist that Dylan start running just in case he turns it on them and ends their friendship prematurely.

For what it’s worth, Lucas clearly thinks they’re overreacting by the unimpressed look on his face. He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”

He can’t even begin to wrap his head around it. The mere image of it has panic searing through every single one of his muscles. He’s a perfectionist, he knows, and he’s always had a thing about grooming—but this, this is downright offensive.

“What—I—what did—,” Asher can’t even form a coherent sentence. His voice sounds screechy, like he’s going through a second puberty or something. “_What the hell have you done?_”

Lucas runs his hands through it absentmindedly, although in some cases there’s not much left to touch. “Please, be more dramatic.”

Dylan is speechless, jaw dropped open and torn between amusement and the infectious hysteria of his partner. Asher shakes his head wordlessly, trying to figure out how the world is supposed to start spinning again.

“What were you thinking?”

“Oh, like it even matters,” Lucas hisses, pushing past them and sauntering into the living area. It’s impossible to tell if his aloofness is genuine, or just a very well-practiced defense mechanism for when a harmless choice becomes a big, big mistake. “It’s just hair. Like how I look matters to literally anybody. Am I going to any fancy parties or making any big impressions this summer? No. I don’t think so. Who gives a shit?”

Asher blinks. “Society! Society gives a shit!”

“Why’d you do it?” Dylan asks, without the same frenzy.

Predictably, Lucas chooses to address the latter. “So kind of you to ask, Dyl. And to your query, I repeat—it doesn’t matter. Why’d I do it—why not? Life is short, and all this shit is meaningless. I looked in the mirror and didn’t like what I saw, so I thought I could use a little change. All it takes is scissors and some initiative.”

Asher can feel himself growing faint. He’s getting light-headed the way he does right before he has to fly, or when the task list in his agenda gets particularly packed during midterms and finals. As blasé as his best friend seems about the whole thing, if he has to stomach looking at that beautiful disaster any longer he thinks he might be sick.

“Go get the scissors,” he demands.

Lucas quirks an eyebrow, obviously interested in his demanding tone. He’s always said he finds Asher’s diminutive and people-pleasing personality a little boring, so it’s no surprise that he would glean entertainment from his panicked outburst.

“Why?” He crosses his arms. “You wanna play cosmetologist?”

Dylan clearly has no idea what Lucas just said, but he’s on a completely different train of thought anyway. “Oh! Idea!” He immediately brightens, clapping his hands together and absorbing some of Lucas’s mischievous energy. “We should give each other haircuts.”

Lucas points at him and raises his eyebrows, the smirk on his face making Asher itchy.

“No! We are not doing that!”

“What then, spaghetti?” He gives him a mocking pout. “Why are you all fired up?”

Asher lets out a frustrated hum, clenching his fists. “We’re getting the scissors, and we’re fixing the monstrosity you’ve created on your head.”

“Why do you care? It doesn’t matter! It’s not _your _perfect little pouf.”

“Because _I’m_ the one who has to look at you, meatball!” Asher barks, stomping further into the room and matching his glare. “And I’ll tell you right now, I’m _not _going to give myself hives staring at you with the worst haircut of all time all summer long. I’m not gonna do it!”

Lucas stares him down, obviously waiting to call his bluff. The two of them have had many minor standoffs in the last two years, never over anything serious, and this is just another one of those times. But it feels like something more, and Asher is not going to let his nature to appease get the better of him this time around. Because he knows if he has to look at that disaster any more than he already has, it will drive him insane. And he’s not sure how much torture he wants to put himself through, even if it is in the name of his best friend.

So he stands his ground, clenching his jaw and not letting the intense gaze of his adversary intimidate him. Dylan watches uncertainly, cast as Switzerland by default as he often is.

Lucas narrows his eyes, still waiting for him to crack. Contemplating whether or not standing by his stupid decision is worth risking the company of one of his only actual friends during a summer that already feels characteristically lonely.

“Dylan,” Asher states, softer this time. “Get. The scissors.”

After another long moment, Lucas breaks first.

“Fine,” he huffs, rolling his eyes as he storms past Asher and back in the direction of the bathroom. “But you’re going to have to help me, if you’re so obsessed with it. If you think you can fucking fix it, be my guest.”

Asher exhales, stretching out his fingers at his sides. He doesn’t often ball them up like that, so he’s surprised by how sore they feel. They’ve got nothing on his upper back, though, where the anxiety always resides.

As he passes by Dylan to follow Lucas, the former gently halts him by touching his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, but Asher is familiar with the questions the tilt of his head implies. If he’s okay. If he’s feeling too anxious. If they should go.

The last thing he’s going to do is make Dylan leave behind their best friend, even if he’s feeling stressed. Being friends with Lucas has never been _easy_, and far be it for him to back out of the adventure now. So he merely shrugs, accepting the quick kiss on the forehead Dylan gives him before the two of them set off to do damage control.

By the time Asher has done a full assessment of the self-inflicted carnage, the consensus is that it basically all has to go. It’s too uneven and inconsistent, and the only way to make sure it grows back neatly is to wipe the slate clean entirely. So scissors become an electric razor, and a rainy summer hangout becomes a cramped clean-up exercise in the hall bathroom of the apartment Lucas hates to inhabit.

Even with Dylan’s charm at full volume, his best light-hearted efforts don’t do much to color the situation anything other than blue. As Asher finishes essentially buzzing his best friend’s head and Lucas hides the change underneath the dark snapback that hasn’t made an appearance since freshman year, the sinking feeling he was fighting on the car ride over only hardens into lead in his stomach.

Without a doubt in his mind, Asher is sure they’re in for a cruel summer.


	3. the voicemail ( charlie )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings**: underage drinking, mentions of vomit, and some classic internalized homophobia!
> 
> Also, Rosie Gardner is a real homie

As summer descends upon Manhattan, Charlie Gardner is one hundred percent certain he’s not going to survive the break.

After the confessions page pulls its grand finale, it’s not difficult for Charlie to present as ill enough to get out of the last two days of school. He feels on the verge of vomiting every time he so much as thinks about it, the fact that everyone now knows he submitted the posts about him and Riley feeling like damning evidence to the belief that he is not who he says he is. He claims he’s free of responsibility, but his name on the caption of multiple posts says otherwise. He claims he’s a good, faithful person, but many of his decisions in the last few days—weeks, _months_ if he’s being honest—point to the contrary. He claims he’s a good friend, but a good friend wouldn’t throw another under the bus just to save their own skin. Just to feel like they have control over a narrative they’re not even sure they want to own.

Suffice to say, Eleanor believes him when he tells her he’s not feeling like himself and lets him hide out the last days of school in his room.

But being hidden away sure doesn’t mean rest. It’s impossible to relax when his mind is buzzing in overtime, replaying the last week over and over like a record stuck in a groove. His throat still burns from the sheer panic he felt on Monday, and the longer he puts off reaching out to Riley to apologize the more unfathomable the prospect grows. If he could have it his way, like if he could truly have one wish, he thinks he’d like to disappear entirely. Stop existing without even the memory of him left behind, so at least no one will have to miss him when he’s gone.

If they even would, anyway. And that idea doesn’t seem so great either when he realizes disappearing from here means facing judgment elsewhere, and he’s absolutely sure he’s doomed himself in that category.

Even still, even knowing how severely he’s screwed everything up, the playback loop in his mind keeps coming back to the same thing.

He should never have gone to the audition. He should’ve stayed exactly where he was at the church. He should’ve run in the other direction, as fast as he could go. Zay would’ve been fine without him there—he always is, after all. He can’t help but imagine how things could be if he had just done what he knew was smart, how much easier everything would be and how he’d probably feel less like an intruder in his own home.

But then, he always has to think, imagine if he hadn’t.

He kissed Zay Babineaux. In spite of all the uncertainty and nausea and fear, he kissed him, and the world didn’t end. He didn’t get struck by lightning. He kissed Zay Babineaux and he’s still here, living and breathing and thinking about it non-stop until the real world forces action out of him and he has to pretend like nothing has changed. Like he’s the same old Charlie Gardner, as if everything he knows about everything hasn’t completely flipped inside out.

He kissed Zay Babineaux, and Zay Babineaux kissed him back.

He knows he did, because it happened more than once. The greatest proof against coincidence is repeated trials, and unless he has a serious case of psychosis and made the whole thing up—which, given his well-being as of late, isn’t out of the question—he definitely kissed him enough times to rule out a fluke.

Zay kissed him. And kissed him. And kissed him.

Charlie knows this is exactly how this stuff is supposed to happen. This is exactly how it consumes you. Sin isn’t made to be unpleasant—if it were, no one would commit it. It’s meant to be comforting, captivating, the most irresistible weapon against the weak will of humanity. All it takes is one taste, and before you know it you’re cascading down from the moral high ground past the point of no return.

In the middle of the night, when the mask of the day has effectively worn off and there’s no one to report to but himself, Charlie confesses that he’s far past the point of no return. When he’s feeling particularly brave—or even particularly scared—he has to admit that he doesn’t regret it.

It’s easier to be emboldened about his fall from grace in the dark. It’s harder when he’s awake in the daylight, spending the summer afternoons with his family. Wondering if they can sense something about him is different, if they can feel the trouble radiating off him. Making eye contact with his mother is like shock therapy, the reminder that he’s lying straight to her face and stealing her pride and trust without letting her know all the facts as effective a deterrent as a thousand volts to the skull.

At least until night comes again, and he’s back in the memory cinema like clockwork. Lost in the ghost of warm lips, shaky hands, impatient fingers on his hips and in his hair and the whisper of whether or not this is okay. The eager reassurance that it is, and the hot breath and permission for more that comes with it.

If he’s really damned, he’s already doomed anyway. So as long as sin continues to taste like Zay, then he guesses he’ll accept his eternal punishment.

Except he’s not exactly doing that either when he thinks about it. He hasn’t spoken to Zay since the end of the school year, and only to respond to his multiple texts asking if he was okay after his fast escape on Monday. If Riley has reason to be pissed at him for perpetuating the rumors about them, then Zay is probably furious. He’s been sending him mixed signals for months whether intentional or not—culminating in the kissing and kissing and kissing—and of course he has to blow it up by obviously propping up a totally different story. And now everyone _knows _he was propping it up on his own, so that’s a whole other problem.

Charlie doesn’t know which take is worse. Does he want everyone to think of him as a womanizer so desperate for attention that he made up rumors about dating the new girl, or does he want them to think the truth?

Both options make him feel sick, so he does what Gardners do best. Buries the problem away in his subconscious, deep, deep down where it’ll stay with every other imperfection until he has to face it or he dies. If it keeps him from throwing up, it’s an effective solution.

When the summer truly kicks off and school gets further and further in rear view, it becomes easier to pretend again. Riley definitely isn’t looking to talk to him, and not being in the same building for eight hours a day helps that endeavor. Zay left for the Kossal program basically within the same week classes ended, so it’s not worth trying to chat with him anyway. He’s got so much other stuff to focus on, things he _should _be focusing on considering how hard he worked to earn his spot. Charlie wouldn’t want him to be anywhere else. And if it helps him in getting to avoid difficult conversations, he certainly can’t complain about that.

Still, he’s surprised by how much he misses him. Aside from the memory that has taken up so much of his mental energy, Charlie is well-aware that his fondness for Zay goes deeper than that. Even before the notion of… that, he’d always admired him. Fun personality, seemingly boundless confidence, brilliant dancer. Inspirational, in some ways. His sense of humor, the way they can talk about whatever and it feels like the most interesting conversation ever, how he actually gets him to go out and _try _things. To stop overthinking the practice of existing and just _live_ it.

He’d wanted to be his friend for so long, and the last few months actually made that a reality. In spite of all the wackiness he can’t seem to keep under control, he and Zay _were_ friends, so he supposes it’s only natural he’d miss him when he’s gone.

He wonders if he’s ruined all that, after his stupid inability to keep his hands to himself. He never bothered to clarify what the two of them were after audition night, if anything had changed, and he’s way too chicken to ask now.

Stomach ache. Bury it safely away. Everything is fine.

Considering how his mind feels like it’s constantly on fire, he has to admit he’s impressed by how boring his summer is turning out to be. The safe recluse of his sisters and parents and Skippy the beagle is nice at first, but by the second week he kind of feels like his brain is going to leak out of his ears. Either that or he’ll melt into the living room carpet and fade into nothingness due to the heat, which is already breaking records this season.

It’s strange, because he’s always been a homebody. He’s never been a particularly outgoing, adventurous guy, and hanging around at home has never bothered him before. But it’s like all the sudden he’s alive with restless energy, and doing nothing but lazing around and forcing himself to take walks to get his legs moving despite the humidity is only increasing the likelihood of developing psychosis.

That is, if he doesn’t have it already.

He figures that’s the reason he senses the excitement of his younger sister as they head into the third week—not that he’s counting the days. For the first time since Bridgette left, his parents are taking a vacation to visit his grandparents in Colorado, just the two of them, and are leaving him in charge.

This doesn’t seem like an especially intriguing concept to him, but the morning that they’re gearing up to head out for the airport Rosie is practically vibrating across the table from him as she wolfs down her pancakes.

“Now, I’ve left a lasagna in the freezer for tomorrow night, and you have the debit card for ordering in tonight.” Eleanor is rushing around doing last minute preparations, purse slung over her shoulder. “It shouldn’t be too much of a hassle, since Daisy will be at the Carmichaels, but don’t be afraid to treat yourselves.”

“Sounds good.”

“And you know where the emergency numbers are. Remember the first aid kit is in the cupboard under the stairs. And if something really terrible happens, run next door and get Mrs. Fitz. She knows you all are here alone for the weekend, so she’s our first responder if worse comes to worse.”

“Mom, what do you think is going to happen?” Charlie gives her his most reassuring smile, trying to assuage some of her anxieties before she has to get on a three hour flight. “We’re not doing rocket science here.”

“Maybe you aren’t,” Daisy says into her juice.

Eleanor forces herself to pause, taking a deep breath and pushing her hair out of her face. She gives him a fond smile before redirecting her attention, spinning in the center of the kitchen to take stock.

“One more check upstairs. Then we’ll be ready—I’m almost ready, Ambrose, I promise—!”

Their father waves off her statement as she flurries out the kitchen and up the stairs. He’s given up waiting by the door with their luggage, grabbing some bacon off Charlie’s plate and nudging him playfully. “Ready to play babysitter, kiddo?”

Charlie can’t help but smile, making a face and tossing sneers at his sisters. “All I have to do is water them twice a day, right?”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Rosie drones, stuffing a forkful of pancakes into her mouth and chewing loudly.

“Like you could even make water,” Daisy adds.

Ambrose raises his eyebrows, giving Charlie a wink. It’s small moments of camaraderie like that he values most with his father—unspoken tacit exchanges that signal just how much it means to be the man of the house. Growing up in the middle of four sisters certainly has it’s annoyances, but he can admit that the special relationship it gives him with his dad is one of the greatest pros.

And small moments speak volumes when there’s always something else demanding their attention. Eleanor descends from the stairs, murmuring about other last minute details as Ambrose jogs back towards their things.

While both parents are preoccupied, Rosie pointedly kicks at Charlie under the table.

“Ow! What, rugrat?”

“Okay, you’re _literally_ two and half years older than me.”

“Two and three quarters.”

“Whatever. I’m not a _rugrat_.” She chooses to move past the argument, taking advantage of their momentary privacy in spite of the fact that they’ll be alone for three days and Daisy is sitting about two feet away and obviously listening. “I’m going out tonight.”

He doesn’t know if it’s well-behaved Catholic in him or if he’s truly just an undeniable bore, but the phrase alone makes him concerned. “What does that mean?”

She rolls her eyes. “Nothing. It doesn’t _mean _anything. Janet is having people over and mom said I could go for a while.”

“But…”

“But… I’m always the one who has to leave first.” Rosie stabs at her plate happily, a smug smirk on her face. “Tonight, that’s not happening.”

“Whew,” Daisy says sarcastically, grabbing her dishes and taking them to the sink. “So grateful I won’t be here to see how this will go wrong.”

Charlie hesitates, running through all of the ways such a thing could go wrong. Then, he can’t help but imagine Zay’s voice in his head, laughing at him for assuming fun is trouble. Rosie’s friends from Catholic middle school aren’t likely to get up to anything nefarious, and he can remember how it felt being the one to go home early because of their family curfew. Not that he was nearly as social as his younger sister, but he can at least empathize.

“How are you getting home?”

“Janet’s sister is going to drive people home. So no taking the subway at night or anything _forsaken_ like that.”

“Okay, okay, no need to be dramatic.” Charlie taps his fingers on the tabletop. “What if mom finds out?”

Rosie lifts her gaze to lock eyes with him, expression plain as she finishes chewing the last of her breakfast.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

The challenge sends adrenaline shooting through him for reasons he can’t explain. He has no idea if Rosie realizes how much weight lying to your parents can put on your shoulders—or if she maybe already knows well enough, considering how nonchalant she is about the possibility. Maybe the guilt gene skipped her, the same way it must’ve skipped Bridgette. Or perhaps he’s just extra sensitive, strangled by liabilities so heavy and all-consuming that any other slight infraction feels like the end of the world.

He doesn’t get the chance to respond either way, Eleanor beckoning all of them to the entryway to say goodbye as their Uber arrives. Each of them exchange hugs with their parents, Eleanor showering kisses and throwing last minute reminders out there as an attachment to every farewell tiding. Be safe—and remember to water the flowers. Have fun—but don’t forget to walk Skippy!

When Charlie embraces his father, he holds on a little longer than usual. He doesn’t know why—maybe because hugs between them are rare as it is, even though he doesn’t feel any less loved because of it. Maybe because there is the very real possibility that their plane could crash in the middle of the Rockies, and he doesn’t want his last hug with him to be lackluster.

Or maybe it’s for the exact reason he wishes it wasn’t. Because the more certain he becomes about pieces of himself that he’s been hiding from for so long, the more uncertain things like an affectionate moment from his dad feel. Like if he’s going to embrace the underworld, he better be prepared to lose his gate keys to everything else.

Of course, Ambrose doesn’t think anything of it. He gives his shoulder a bracing pat before ushering Eleanor out the door, attempting to get them on their way without her inevitably remembering some other life-threatening thing she needs to check that will make them late. Charlie, Rosie, and Daisy crowd the doorway and wave them goodbye until their car disappears down the road, officially kicking off their three-day weekend of parental freedom.

Daisy hums. “That was less exciting than I thought it would be.”

Although the prospect of being in charge felt like a major responsibility, Charlie quickly finds he concurs with Daisy’s assessment. Within an hour their home settles into its usual plaintive existence, predictably none of them up to no good.

He’s back to being uncharacteristically restless, making a sizable dent in his summer reading list as he sinks into the couch in the living room. But he’s not really absorbing the material, finding himself rereading paragraphs over and over while his mind drifts to scraps of choreography and complaints about the weather and the soft touch of a good friend. He wonders absentmindedly whether it’s as unbearably hot upstate where the Kossal program is, and if Zay has made any progress at all on his reading list. Given his dyslexia and his valid excuse of having much more important things to focus on, he’s positive he hasn’t. He wonders what activities he must be doing instead.

He wonders, curiously and achingly, if he’s thought about him at all.

The stomach ache is back again, but Daisy distracts him from it before he can mentally bury himself. She declares that the Carmichaels are there to pick her up, forcing him to extract himself from the couch to make sure she gets to the car okay.

Charlie decides he can’t read anymore. He opts to walk Skippy instead, taking them on a much longer journey around Central Park than usual as he attempts to clear out his brain with fresh air. Although the beagle is tuckered out by the time they get back, he’s still itching with that unidentifiable energy. Like no matter how far he walks, he’s never going to sweat it out.

Rosie heads out around 7, the daylight still persisting long enough for her journey to the west side. It’s somewhat of a relief to see her dressed up but not outrageously, her cute blouse and high-waisted skirt combo being no more crazy than the coat of mascara and eyeliner she’s applied. He doesn’t know what he was picturing when she said “going out” earlier, but he wonders what inside of him is so warped to be lame that his sister going to hang out with her friends equates to _Gossip Girl_ level shenanigans in his mind.

“So you’re taking the subway there? And Natalie—,”

“Natalie is going to meet me literally at the next stop so we’ll ride together. Yes.” She slips on her tennis shoes, giving him a look. “I’ve ridden the subway before, you know. Most teenagers in the city ride it by the time they’re like, twelve.”

“Wow, thrilling statistic coming from the thirteen-year-old.”

“I’m _literally_ almost fourteen,” Rosie snaps. She glares at him, absorbing him in all his Gap tee, summer homework, perfect plan-less older brother glory. Evidently, it’s not an impressive view. “Could you live a little, please?”

She doesn’t give him much of a chance to respond. He calls after her as she jogs down the steps. “Text me when you get there!”

“Okay, mom!”

Charlie scowls, waiting until she crosses the intersection and disappears into the subway station to shut the door. Turning and leaning back against the door, he lets out a deep sigh as he takes in the large, empty home in front of him. A prospect that should be exhilarating according to every piece of high school media ever made, yet all he feels is lonely.

Skippy blinks at him from his perch in the kitchen doorway, tilting his head. Expecting something from him too, it seems.

“I’m done presenting for the day,” he grumbles, pushing away from the door and heading upstairs to his room.

Charlie can’t say what makes him do it as the hours tick on and the day succumbs to the night. He could blame the mischievous influence of his sister, making his parents getaway into an opportunity for chaos before they even stepped out the door and mocking him for his saltine existence. He could blame the restless energy he’s been battling for weeks, finally reaching a fever pitch and encouraging him to seek out a little fun. He could admit that it’s more to do with himself than anything else, the dissatisfaction with his sorry excuse for a life growing with every passing day and threatening to suffocate him.

He can’t give himself any leeway for the questionable decisions he’s been making as of late, the vices he’s been feeding, but then he increasingly can’t stand the polished, well-mannered existence he leads otherwise. There’s no way to win, so he supposes he’s guaranteed a loser no matter what.

That, and he always tends to slip into his worst habits at night. It’s the only time he lets himself breathe. Letting loose and reliving some of the most riveting moments of his short life over and over again, or sometimes, imagining all the new ones he could experience. The craziest choices he ever makes—even if they’re only in his head.

This time, he decides to stop fantasizing about being daring—or perhaps, others might argue, a normal teenager—and actually _do _something. Try something new, as Zay would want, and live a little, as Rosie challenged him.

All of the above is how he finds himself kneeling in front of the family liquor cabinet at a quarter until 11, having lifted the key from its not-so-secret hiding place in the top drawer of his father’s bedside table.

Although he made the active choice to do this with an unusual amount of vigor, it’s like his body is fighting back. His fingers are trembling so much he can’t even unlock the cabinet, causing him to drop the key more than once. The clattering gets Skippy’s attention, claws clicking on the hardwood until he joins him in front of the furniture and sniffs to investigate.

“_Dang_ it,” Charlie groans after the third key drop, having to nudge Skippy out of the way as he goes to check it out. “No, Skippy—Skip, either make yourself useful or go.”

The beagle gives him the puppy dog eyes, dropping onto his side and rolling onto his back. It’s a bold move, acting as though being generally adorable is his great purpose, but then he figures his current way of moving through life isn’t all that different. What does he do most of the day, after all? Smile, look presentable, speak when he’s asked to speak.

Woof.

“Point taken,” he says, using his indignation to motivate his hands to stop shaking.

Once he manages to get the cabinet doors open, he’s fully aware of how in over his head he is. There are so many glass decanters and bottles of all different types and shades, he doesn’t even know where to begin. He doesn’t know if there’s a beginners alcohol he should be looking for, or if there’s one his parents would be more likely to notice if it changes volume.

If he was going to be all devil-may-care, he thinks, he could’ve at least done the research to pull it off.

But most people don’t over prepare for every situation. Most people don’t obsess over every choice they make and how it’ll come off to the rest of the world. For once, Charlie thinks he could bother to operate on instinct. He did once before, after all, and it ended up being the best evening of his life.

Repeated trials…

Reaching for the first term that looks familiar, he yanks a stout, clear bottle off the bottom shelf. Then he closes the cabinet doors, sliding the lock back into place so its ready to click shut in a moment’s notice.

The bottle suddenly feels heavy in his lap. He leans back against the cabinet and gets a better look at it, the pleasant blue and grey design offering a rather appealing aesthetic. The word “vodka” stares back at him, causing his limbs to tingle as he removes the glass cork.

The aroma of it is strong as he brings it closer. He hesitates, tossing a look to Skippy watching him forlornly from an arms length away.

“Well,” he says with an exhale, lifting the bottle in mock cheers. “Bottoms up, right?”

Skippy just blinks at him. And although there’s absolutely nothing stopping him, he still finds himself frozen with inaction. Doomed to be a coward.

“You know what, you’re right,” Charlie says, clearing his throat. He drops the bottle between his legs and pulls his phone from his pocket. “Needs music. It’s not a party without music. This would be a pretty pathetic picture without it.”

Skippy lets out a chipper bark. Charlie translates for him.

_Pretty pathetic with it._

Ignoring his own internal riff track, he opens his Spotify and searches for something to fill the numbing silence. He doesn’t have anything that would suit this occasion, he knows it… but the playlist Zay made for him sitting at the top of his recently played holds promise. He pulls it up and hits shuffle, a flawless selection with an excellent groove coming through the speaker.

Already, he feels a little bolder. He also feels like he wants to dance.

Climbing to his feet, he cradles the vodka in his hands and takes a deep breath. Then he raises the bottle again, giving a nod to Skippy.

“Woof,” he says dryly, taking his first declarative swig.

What he’s most struck by is how much it burns. He nearly coughs it up, grimacing and forcing himself to swallow. It tastes _disgusting_, sharp and acidic and yet like nothing at all. Nowhere near as good as Zay, but he never believed it would be. He’s not that misguided.

But then, freedom obviously doesn’t come easily. He knows if he wants to feel anything, he’s going to have put in a little more dedication. So he wills himself to take another drink, shaking his head to shake off the sting and letting out an exhale.

Music definitely helps. He reaches over to turn up the volume, trying to find the rhythm and letting that act as an anchor. It’s never failed him before, and it acts as an effective enough support system to get through another sip of liquor. Then another. It’s a little dance all for himself: down a shot, swallow it with a practiced smile, shake it off with a bit of freestyle movement.

By the time he’s a quarter through the bottle, the risk-taking finally starts to pay off. It starts as this heat in his cheeks, and slowly he can feel the tension in his spine release. Vertebrae by vertebrae, nerve by nerve, until the warm sensation spreads to his brain. All the sudden, it’s like he’s finally found a way to get his mind to _shut up._

“Oh my _God_,” Charlie sighs.

And then he’s laughing. Freely, uncontrollably, as easily as the dancing and the warmth and the ability to breathe.

The drinking just becomes another part of the choreography. The more he does it the less it burns, and at some point he sort of doesn’t even realize he’s still doing it. It gets lost in the blissful ease of everything else, and for about half an hour existing is _fun_. He’s grooving around the living room, singing along to songs he didn’t even know until five months ago and not caring how he looks or sounds or seems.

His only complaint is that it’s hot, which of course it is. It’s summer. So he yanks his shirt over his head and messes up his hair in the process, Skippy skittering out of the way before he accidentally discards it on top of him.

Everything feels like a good idea when there’s no one around to stop him from doing it. He spends some time jumping and dancing around on the couch, because what does it matter if the cushions get ruined or he’s standing on the furniture? He gives Skippy an extra dinner of his favorite food, because if he’s treating himself why shouldn’t his most loyal companion? It feels like a genius decision, even when he almost cuts himself on the can because his hands are still shaking only now for different reasons and most things are a little blurry. He could do something truly crazy, like take the debit card and go get some serious shopping in. Maybe get something to wear around other than GAP.

Well, he could if it weren’t past midnight and most establishments weren’t already closed for the night.

The issue is irrelevant, as a far more brilliant idea strikes him once he’s returned to the living room. If he asks himself what he really _wants _to do at that moment, the answer is glaringly obvious given the reason he’s doing all this in the first place. There’s not a lot of merit in having fun unless there’s proof you did it (if social media is any indication), and there’s only one person Charlie wants to share his breakthrough with. Well, there’s a lot more he’d like to do with him while his mind is mostly mute and he feels so pleasantly warm, but he’s far too far away for any of that so he’ll have to settle for the next best thing.

Charlie’s body is moving faster than his brain. He’s fumbling with his phone and hitting call before the thought even crystallizes, knocking back another swig of vodka. It’s odd, how the burn has suddenly turned enjoyable.

He doesn’t answer, naturally. It’s the middle of the night and he likely has plenty of exciting things going on come tomorrow morning that he needs to rest up for. But it’s still his voice inviting him to leave a message, and the sensation of hearing it after so long without it is enough to send tingles down Charlie’s spine.

So when the line beeps, cueing his chance to speak, he does anyway.

Woof.

“Zay—,” he exhales, and immediately he’s laughing again. He doesn’t know why. Saying his name just sends this rush through him, and in that moment that translates into laughter. Breathless, giddy, the way he feels when he’s there. “Zay, you’re never going to believe what I did.”

He tells him all of it. How his parents are gone for the weekend, how he’s suddenly in charge, how he finally _did _something. He describes how bad vodka tastes, until eventually it doesn’t matter and the burn kind of feels good—he just barely keeps himself from telling him it doesn’t taste anywhere near as good as him. He talks about the dancing, because it’s Zay, and he understands what it means to dance.

Somehow, this becomes more addictive than alcohol. It’s as if the feeling of missing him has been concentrated and injected straight into his bloodstream, taking hold of him more effectively than the vodka. It’s not the same as talking with him, but unloading everything he’s wanted to say into his voicemail almost feels like a good enough substitute. He can imagine all the ways he’d react anyway—the places where he’d snort, when he’d roll his eyes, the rare instances where he gets that smile on his lips that’s sharp and soft all at once.

Only unlike the buzz from drinking, more doesn’t seem to be the solution. The more he enables it and lets himself pretend he’s talking to him, the stronger the ache grows. It’s no longer a light, persistent throbbing in his chest—it’s resounding and all over, from his head to his throat to his stomach and every muscle in between.

All of him is pounding with it, the overwhelming need for something he’s not supposed to want.

“Anyway, I don’t know why I’m saying all this to you,” he says. He isn’t sure if he’s actually slurring his words a bit, or if he’s just imagining he is because that’s what he’s been told happens when you get drunk. He unsteadily flops onto the couch. “I guess because it’s boring here without you. But like, you’d know that better than anyone. I’m sure you’ve got so much stuff going on at that camp. Way more fun than anything here. So maybe you can like, listen to all of my boring nonsense and inform me just how boring it is.” He chuckles, although he doesn’t think anything is particularly all that funny. “Expert in boring. That’s you. No, wait, I guess that would be me, and you’re just the an—analyst? Analyst. No. You’re the expert, and I’m the most boring specimen you’ve ever discovered.”

He lets out another half-hearted laugh, shifting and falling onto his back against the couch cushions. He stares at the ceiling, uncertain if it always seems to be swirling slightly like it is right now and he’s just never bothered to pay attention before.

It’s time to hang up. It’s time to stop talking, while the buzz still feels minimally warm and the pain in his throat is just a minor irritation.

“Or maybe… I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you’re the only one who would care. Kinda feels like the reason I did it in the first place—Zay would think it was so cool.” Charlie swallows, not sure where the words are coming from at this point. “Not that I think you’re like, a bad habits supporter or whatever, but like… you’d be impressed. Like, I do anything remotely out of the ordinary and you actually notice. You’d actually give a crap.”

The warmth has gone away and suddenly he’s cold. But internally, like there’s ice in his stomach, slowly spreading up his torso. He better say what he wants to say, before it reaches his lungs and he runs out of oxygen.

“It’s like… everyone just thinks this is what I am, you know?” His voice is suddenly sharp, crackling with emotion. He supposes it must be the ice. “Perfect, boring Charlie Gardner. That’s who I am. That’s who I’m supposed to be, so no one questions it. And for a long time, I didn’t question it either. Because if it makes thing easy, and everyone seems to like him so much, then why shouldn’t that be who I am?”

His voice feels thick. He clears his throat, but it doesn’t make it go away. The ache is getting worse.

“But—but I don’t know. It just feels like… everything is a performance.” He feels a tear slip down his cheek and swipes at it, face scrunching up as he tries to stall the rest of it. He exhales a huff, screwing his eyes shut. It doesn’t help. “Shit. It’s like, I’m doing this thing, all the time, where I’m playing this role or that role and I don’t even know who it’s for or when it ends. When does it end?”

The ice must be reaching his lungs, because it feels like he can’t breathe.

“And when it does end, who the hell am I gonna be then? Is it ever gonna end? How is the performing supposed to end when I don’t even like who I am when I’m not?”

Charlie forgets that he’s still on the phone. He forgets who he’s talking to or why he’s even speaking at all, so overwhelmed with the realization stumbling out of him that nothing else can stay.

Then he’s sobbing, loudly and painfully and unable to reel it in like he’s so well-trained to do thanks to the alcohol.

He can’t remember the last time he cried like this, but he knows it has to be years ago. What feels like ages. Probably when he was little, before he learned that tears that don’t belong to boys, over something stupid like falling off his bike or his sisters beating him at Monopoly. Things that don’t matter, that a band-aid or a kiss on the head or a participation trophy can fix.

Whatever it is that’s gripping him now, there’s no band-aid for it. Charlie has known that basically since he could first feel it, and that makes the fact that it’s effectively consuming him all the more terrifying. He doesn’t get a participation trophy, since all he’s done his whole life is hide in the shadows.

He doesn’t know how to escape it until Zay proves to be the beacon once again. He drops the phone, and the mere acknowledgment that it’s still recording his message is shocking enough to stem the meltdown momentarily. He curses loudly, fumbling off the couch to catch it and lifting it to his ear only to find he doesn’t know what to say.

After this, the trouble and the incoherence and the _crying_, he’s fairly sure Zay is going to block him and never speak to him again. Convincing himself that this is the last thing he ever gets to say, the words become fast and simple.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for confusing you. I’m sorry that I tried to run from you. I’m sorry that I didn’t try harder, so that I’d leave you alone. You’re so amazing, and I’m—I’m nothing.” He gasps, wiping at his eyes. “I don’t know what’s underneath the performance, so I guess I’m just nothing. I’m sorry that posted those things about Riley. I’m sorry I don’t know what I’m doing or who I am. I’m sorry that I’m so fucking scared of existing that I can’t do it at all. And I’m sorry for calling you like this.”

Charlie makes himself as small as possible, curling against the base of the couch and wrapping his arms around his knees. The cold has spread throughout his whole body, only it’s not doing what he thinks cold is supposed to. Suddenly he feels hot again, but not pleasantly warm. Not humid, like the weather. He feels like he’s on fire, as if the burn of the vodka is making a powerful resurgence.

“Please just forget about this. I’m sorry I bothered you. I hope—,” he stammers, choking on the words. “I hope you’re having fun at camp. You deserve it. Bye.”

He hangs up before he can say anything else to dig his own grave deeper, dropping his phone on the carpet and descending into tears again. Only these feel different, less born out of a pain and more out of fear. There’s an ominous dread taking residency in his chest now, heavy and inexplicable considering how great he felt less than an hour ago.

Although he’s always been fairly level-headed about the more fantastical elements of his faith, he finds himself wondering if this is what it feels like before you get dragged to Hell.

Before he can spiral, a grounded horror shakes him out of it. He hears chatter and car doors opening out on the street, signaling that someone is coming home.

“Shit,” he croaks, pushing himself up off the floor and scrambling to hide. “Shit, shit, shit—!”

He manages to get the liquor cabinet locked again, sliding across the hardwood as he gets to the entryway with the third-full vodka bottle still in his grasp. He forces himself up the stairs in a panic, disappearing from view just as the car door outside slams and he hears someone give a cheerful goodbye.

Even though he ducks into his room and shuts the door behind him before anyone comes inside, it doesn’t count as a victory. Because his hands are shaking uncontrollably, and he can hardly stand, and the stomach ache that has sprung up in the last ten minutes isn’t going away. It’s not disappearing, no matter how frantically he tries to bury it.

Because it’s not that kind of stomach ache. He realizes seconds before it’s too late, nausea seizing him and propelling him back into the hall towards the bathroom.

He makes it there just in time to vomit, only managing to reach up and lock the door behind him before it overpowers him again.

In this case, out of sight doesn’t provide him with the power to be out of mind. It’s not long before his chaos gets the attention of whoever he was so frantically running from, the sounds of retching pretty hard to ignore. Despite the reality of the situation and how unlikely he knows it is, when someone knocks urgently on the bathroom door he can’t help the terror that grips him over the possibility that it might be his parents.

“Charlie?” Rosie doesn’t bother to keep quiet as she speaks to him through the door. “Are you okay?”

He wants to assure her it’s fine, but it’s hard to do so when he’s puking his guts out. He starts to tell her not to worry but can’t even get the words out, his subsequent gagging only making her pound on the door more.

He thinks to text her, but he realizes with dread that he left his phone in the living room. He’d say the thought makes him sick, but it’s far past that point.

Rosie’s concerned tone only makes him feel worse. “Charlie, what’s going on? Open the door!”

He shakes his head, even though she can’t see it. As if being in this position is bad enough, literally made ill by his own poor decisions, he can’t bear the thought of his younger sister seeing him. Acknowledging the truth—that he’s messed up, imperfect, weak and diseased in more ways than one.

Family loves one another, but love is conditional. Charlie can’t handle the idea of someone he loves seeing him like this, because he doesn’t think he’d still love him if he did.

Still, he shouldn’t have thought he was free when Rosie went quiet on the other side of the door. He knows her better than that, and if he weren’t so intoxicated he might’ve known she’d try to worm her way into the situation whether he let her in or not. But he’s currently not in the best state of mind and a bit preoccupied trying not to upchuck his entire stomach or pass out—whichever comes first, potentially both—so it’s a surprise when she throws open the door a couple minutes later, bent coat hanger in hand from picking the lock.

His mom was right. She never should’ve let them play all those Nancy Drew PC games when they were growing up.

For a moment she just stares at him, taking in the spectacle. Her perfect, polished older brother, exemplary simply by virtue of being virtuous, shirtless and sweaty as he tries not to get anything on the bathroom tile that will leave a permanent mark. Obviously drunk, still tear-stained, far from holy in every sense of the word.

He can’t look at her. He can’t, so it’s almost a relief when a new wave of nausea hits and he has an excuse to look away.

This has to be what Hell feels like.

But Rosie doesn’t turn away from him in disgust. She doesn’t reprimand him or express disdain or abandon him at all. Instead she moves without hesitation, dropping down next to him and starting to gather toilet paper to wipe his face.

When they lock eyes again, her expression is hard to read. But her murmured words speak volumes.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He doesn’t remember much else, but he remembers that she stays. She stays with him for the rest of the night until he crashes, his usually snarky sister helping take care of him without a word.

* * *

The first thing Charlie is aware of is how badly his head hurts.

As the previous night comes back to him in sharp bits and pieces, he figures this could be due to any number of factors. The vodka. The crying. The sickness, which is a strong contender considering the way his throat still burns. The sunlight feels too bright filtering in from his balcony. He lets out a groan, pressing his palms to his eyes and trying to shake off the haze. Trying to feel normal again.

As he tearfully confessed, however, he doesn’t even know what normal is supposed to be.

He’s unsettled when the mattress suddenly vibrates next to him. A bit of searching around the blankets reveals that his phone has been returned to him, the clock on the lock screen informing him that it’s well past noon. It also displays an uncanny amount of text messages blowing up his phone, especially considering how dead his social life has been the last three weeks.

The latest one to come in is the most sobering, shocking him out of his ennui. It’s from Zay, and apparently one of a little under a dozen that he’s received while he was asleep. Although the notion alone sends a spark of adrenaline through him, it quickly shifts from excitement to panic when he remembers why he must be reaching out to him.

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

Thankfully, Rosie comes to his rescue yet again.

His door swings open, his sister poking her head in seemingly to check on him. Although she looks her usual amount of aloof, he doesn’t miss the slight relief that ghosts over her features as she takes him in.

“Finally, you’re awake,” she states, stepping further inside. “I didn’t want to have to be the one to tell mom and dad you died.”

A pleasant thought, but he supposes it’s not unwarranted. She grabs a glass of water sitting on his desk, marching it over to him and not moving until he takes it.

“You’re gonna be like, super dehydrated. So drink that and then text me when you finish it so I can get you another.”

“Yes, doctor,” he says shortly, ignoring her eye roll as he takes a sip. “You seem pretty sure I’m dehydrated for someone who never went to medical school.”

Rosie frowns. “Well, you wouldn’t keep anything down yesterday, even water. So I figure you probably need a lot to make up for it.”

It’s impressive, how he can be in a near constant state of guilt and yet it never loses its punch. He drinks more of the water without comment, Rosie sitting down on the bed and waiting for him to finish the glass.

She takes it from him when it’s empty, Charlie searching for a way to change the mood. “Did you have fun last night?”

“Fun? Oh, you mean Janet’s.” She gets to her feet, shrugging. “It was like, typical. It was literally just cool to be out longer than 10:30PM.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. For all the motor functions he’s slowly regaining control of, his filter does not seem to be one of them. But he needs her to hear it. He feels like he’s never going to be able to stop saying sorry.

Rosie merely shrugs. “Don’t know what for. Didn’t bother _me_. It’s kinda like what Bridgette used to say.”

Charlie is always surprised when Rosie brings up their AWOL sister. She wasn’t all that young when she left considering she only disappeared out of their lives about two years ago, but given that Daisy hardly ever talks about her and the rest of the family certainly doesn’t, he kind of feels like the lone straggler who can’t seem to shake the memory of her off. In fact, the older and more wrapped up in his own missteps he gets, he finds himself thinking about her more and more each day.

Since that’s the case with him, he doesn’t want to know why Rosie’s mind must be drifting back to her. Then, maybe, asking would be the first step in preventing the same thing from happening to her.

“What?”

“‘If you feel sorry, save it for Sunday,’” Rosie recites. “God probably wants your apologies way more than I do.”

Now that she’s mentioned it, Charlie feels the memory of Bridgette’s droll delivery resurface. She did used to say that quite a bit, any time one of them would apologize for something that probably wasn’t really a big deal. Never around mom or dad, of course, and Agatha had already left the house by the time she started it. It always felt like an inside joke rather than actual advice, a devious little secret they kept that allowed them to bend the rules a tiny bit without anything breaking apart.

Hearing Rosie repeat it now, he wonders if he should have listened more carefully. He wonders if things would be different if he had.

As she’s making her way out the door, she suddenly pauses. “Hey, Charlie?”

He pushes himself upright, raising his eyebrows as he runs a hand through his hair. It’s a mess and a half, although he’s far from surprised. He thinks absentmindedly that he’s due for a haircut soon, like perhaps trimming all of the unruly bits from his appearance will help remove all the unruly pieces of his life, too.

“You know that like…” Rosie pauses, searching for exactly what she wants to say. It’s clearly not in her vocabulary, because she struggles to find it. “You could like, say stuff to me. Right? Like, if there’s stuff going on.”

Charlie is nowhere near ready to start telling the truth. He’s not ready to start facing all the things that consumed him last night and nibble away at him every other hour of the day, least of all with his younger sister who he doesn’t want to lose. He wants her to keep respecting him, to keep looking up to him and poking at him for being perfect and knowing he’s a safe space because of it. He isn’t ready to give that up just so that he can stop choking on it all alone.

Even still, he appreciates the sentiment. He appreciates what it means, even more so considering how she helped him and hasn’t made any sort of judgmental comment since.

So when he gives her a smile, it actually feels genuine. “Same.”

She mirrors it, stepping out and shutting the door behind her. Without any further distraction and nothing else to do when he’s feeling so out of sorts, he figures he has to face the text messages eventually.

Only Zay beats him to it. Suddenly his phone is vibrating in his hand again, only this time it doesn’t stop after a couple of beats. It keeps going. And going.

For the love of God, Zay Babineaux is _calling _him.

He can’t fathom picking up. He can’t fathom having to confront everything he said to him last night, especially since he can’t even remember most of it. He’s absolutely certain it was bad though. He’s positive it was bad, and he feels panic spike in his ribs at the sheer possibility it could be _worse_.

More than that, he isn’t ready to hear a goodbye. He isn’t ready for Zay to tell him that he’s had enough, that he’s sick of putting up with him and his inconsistency, that he’s done being his experimental toy. And Charlie wouldn’t know how to explain that that’s not true, wouldn’t have the words to ask him no to go, wouldn’t have the right to beg him to stay.

All that being said, however, he figures he owes him an answer. Because if Zay had to be on the receiving end of his meltdown, then he has to be on the receiving end of his response. It’s only fair.

Hand trembling, Charlie hits accept. “Hello?”

There’s a pause, and for a chilling second he fears he was a second too late.

“Charlie?”

It’s not the same as hearing it in person, but the sound of Zay’s voice alone assuages some of the discomfort. He says his name and it’s like he can breathe again, his spine sending a tingle along each of his vertebrae just like the warmth from last night as he loosened up.

This tingle is a thousand times better.

It’s a panacea, alright, but it sure doesn’t help him figure out what to say. “Um. Hi.”

“_Fucking_ hell, man,” Zay snaps, demonstrating his propensity for colorful language which is reason one of a million why he could never bring him home to meet his mother. An insignificant reason all things considered, but secretly one of his favorite little things about him. “Are you okay? I’ve texted you like a gazillion times. When you didn’t answer—,”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I’m sorry,” Charlie says hastily. His voice comes out particularly scratchy and he grimaces, clearing it before continuing. It doesn’t do much to fix it. “I, uh, just woke up actually.”

Another brief pause. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“No. No, no, it wasn’t like _just _waking up. It was more like a few minutes ago. A handful of minutes. But not because of you calling, or anything.”

“Okay. Well, good.” He starts a thought and then cuts himself off, clearly torn on what he wants to say. “If you need to rest—I would’ve called sooner, but we’re on lunch break right now, so this was really the only time I could get away for a second.”

Charlie is embarrassed he even felt like he had to get away to deal with him. “Seriously, it’s fine. This is… this is fine.”

“Okay. If you say so.” There’s another silence, Zay clearing his throat impatiently. “So.”

He doesn’t want the other shoe to drop yet. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He only has one weapon at his disposal to defend himself with, so he uses it to the best of his ability.

Small talk.

“So…” he repeats, slouching further into his pillows in case he needs to hide. He attempts to make his tone seem chipper. “How’s camp?”

Understandably, Zay is unimpressed.

“How’s camp? How’s _camp_?” He hates that he can imagine the incredulous expression on Zay’s face perfectly. Charlie screws his eyes shut, trying to focus on the darkness inside his eyelids rather than the image of his friend. “Charlie, you better be kidding me. You better be having the greatest laugh of your life right now, and you better enjoy it, because then I’m going to leap through the phone and kill you.”

If only he would. He already accepted that Zay was going to be the death of him, so he can’t think of a better way to go than by his hands. If it gets him here with him, even better.

God, he’s the worst. He’s the _worst_, and he’s losing his damn mind.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry—,”

“Okay, first, you have to stop apologizing. Seriously, you have a compulsion.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Wait, sorry—,”

“You know what? Don’t say anything,” Zay declares, silencing him instantly. “I’m just gonna talk for a second, cool? Can I talk?”

Under normal circumstances, Charlie can’t think of anything he’d like more. Right now, given the rejection that’s likely imminent, he can’t keep the reluctance from creeping out. “Of course.”

“Okay. First things first, whatever unnecessary amount of guilt you’re feeling right now, I want you to cut it out. Got it? Anything you might be thinking about this, or why I’m calling you, or all that shit you apologized for last night—forget it. It’s not important. In this conversation, right now, there is no guilt. Agreed?”

Charlie doesn’t know what to fixate on first. The fact that Zay can practically read his mind, or the fact that he’s claiming this is guilt-free. Like he has the power to say so, like it’s that simple even though he can’t remember a time where he didn’t feel wrong in one way or another.

Zay did once joke that he was a deity, and a more gracious one than what Charlie must be used to. He supposes that must be true, and he’s always respected other belief systems. It would be rude to disregard Zay’s request, especially from the deity of the faith himself.

He lets out an exhale, willing some of the guilt sewn into his soul to go with it.

“Agreed.”

“Good. Then we can actually have a dialogue. Next up—how are you feeling? Tell me you’re drinking water. Did you eat? How’s your head? This was your first time drinking, wasn’t it?”

Charlie scoffs. “No.”

“So yes. Again, I repeat, water. Take some painkillers for the headache, but don’t overdo it. I’ll text my sister later and ask if she has any hangover tips to share. Give it the day though, I’m sure you’ll feel better. At least physically.”

He nods, before he remembers that Zay can’t see him. He hums, rubbing his eyes. “Right. Yes.”

Silence settles between them, halting on the precipice of what Charlie knows Zay really wants to talk about. Not quite silence, actually, given that he can just make out the sounds of activity in the background of wherever he’s hidden himself away to have this conversation. Lively chatter, commotion, laughter here and there.

All the things he should be enjoying, rather than being stuck on the phone with him. Despite their agreement, Charlie feels guilt burn hot in his throat.

“About what you said—,”

“I’m sorry, Zay,” he stammers. Before he can argue he barrels on without waiting for permission. “I know you said not to apologize, but I can’t—I have to. You shouldn’t have to be dealing with this right now. I shouldn’t have called you. It’s not your problem, and I—,”

“Charlie.”

“I don’t even know what I was saying, okay, it was stupid. I got drunk and I guess I can’t hold my liquor because it just got me all emotional, but like—it doesn’t matter. It’s all fine. Literally, it’s so dumb.”

“Charlie.”

“It’s not your problem, and I’m sorry I made it your problem. You have better things to be focusing on, and I shouldn’t have put all this on you. Especially after we—and then I—I’m sorry. Really, you don’t have to do this—,”

“_Charlie_,” Zay interrupts. “I’m glad you called me.”

That’s enough to stop his derailment in its track. He stares at the ceiling, eyes wide and lost for words. There’s no way he’s telling the truth. He has to be lying. He’s just being nice, wonderful and understanding and kind like he always is.

Whatever noise of confusion he lets out, it’s not a word any recognized language would claim. Thankfully, Zay doesn’t wait for him to translate.

“I mean, was I expecting it? No. Was it overwhelming? Yes. You know I wouldn’t bullshit you and tell you otherwise.” Clearly he doesn’t, but Charlie doesn’t interrupt him to argue it. “But I’m glad you felt like you could talk to me. Like seriously, I’d much rather you say all that shit to me rather than someone who wouldn’t be able to handle it. Or keep it all in your head, which can be way worse. All things considered, I wouldn’t have had you handle this any differently. Well, maybe not getting drunk in the first place would’ve been smart, but other than that. I mean it.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure there’s anything to say anyway.

Zay’s tone is softer when he speaks again. It aches, how Charlie can envision exactly how his brown eyes look.

“Look, man, I understand. You know that I’ve felt all of this too—not the exact same, obviously, but I hear you. How it feels like no one really knows you, and you’ve told me how you don’t really feel like you know yourself. And that’s not uncommon, especially when you’re just starting to figure things out. Trying to grapple with it, being—,”

“Don’t,” Charlie says sharply. It’s instinctual, like a fight or flight response, sensing the danger of Zay’s next words and how it might apply to him before they get too close.

Only it doesn’t make him feel safe. It makes him feel cheated, and cowardly. And it makes him feel bad for cutting him off so harshly, considering all Zay is doing at the moment is expressing compassion.

Charlie doesn’t even know what the point is anyway. He knows what he is, even if he can’t bring himself to face it. It seems silly that his brain can’t confront hearing the word when he’s lost the battle on every other front, when there’s absolutely no doubt left in him anymore about how he feels or doesn’t feel and what that means for the rest of his life.

He’s been unable to think about anything but Zay for weeks, practically craving him, but what his mind really can’t handle is a term that only holds whatever connotation he assigns it. A word that’s only dangerous because he’s been so well-trained to believe it is.

Pathetic.

Zay chooses to move past the moment without comment, maintaining his calm tone. “The point is, I get it. I know how hard this can be, but I also know you. And Charlie, listen, forget everyone else for a minute, okay? You are not boring. I know I pick on you, but it’s not serious. You are passionate, and talented, and damningly charming. Not even in the way everyone else thinks, the whole ‘Prince Charming’ thing, that’s not what I’m talking about. You are so naturally charming, like everything you do is interesting and a little bit funny and effortlessly endearing. It’s infuriating, and it’s one of my favorite things about you.”

Charlie feels tears prick the corners of his eyes again. After last night, he has no idea how he has any left to give, but he guesses that’s what the water was for. As it turns out, Zay doesn’t need to jump through the phone to kill him.

“You’re not boring, Charlie. I would know, okay, you know I’m incredibly fun and interesting. I wouldn’t waste my time on someone that I didn’t think was the same.”

This earns a strained chuckle, but Charlie isn’t sure whether the outburst is due to his theatrical self-confidence or the fact that Zay is saying all of this stuff about him at all. His voice grows more impassioned the longer he talks, taking on that slight edge that Charlie has always found fascinating and a little bit intimidating.

“You’re not boring, and you are _definitely_ not nothing. It’s okay if you feel like you don’t know who you are, but I do, and you’re not nothing.”

It’s too much. Charlie wants to hide, but there’s nowhere to go. It’s an impossible wish anyway—he can’t possibly hide from Zay when he’s the only person who has ever actually seen him.

He didn’t even realize how long he’d gone without talking. His throat is aching as if he’s been the one speaking this entire time.

“Charlie? Are you still there?”

“Oh, um, yeah,” he breathes. He wipes at the wetness on his cheeks, swallowing hard and searching for something to add. “Um, thanks. For all that. That means a lot, coming from you.”

“Well, like I said. I don’t bullshit with you.” Zay hesitates. “Can you be honest with me?”

That seems like a tall order for a boy who has done nothing but lie for so much of his existence, but he finds himself caving like it’s a small favor. He supposes regardless of what Zay asked of him, he would agree as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Sure.”

“Are you okay? Like, really. Some of the stuff you said yesterday… please tell me the truth. Are you going to be okay?”

Charlie has no idea how to answer. Objectively, yes, he’s going to be fine. He’s been living this way for sixteen years, and he doesn’t see that changing any time soon. And like Zay said, once the disturbing quality of the hangover wears off then he’ll be back to his former state of coping. Existing, for better or worse.

But Zay wants him to tell the truth, and so saying he’s fine feels like a betrayal of that request. He isn’t sure what state he’s in, but he wouldn’t call it okay. He can’t remember the last time he was explicitly _okay._

How long it takes him to answer is as good as an answer itself. Zay sighs, obviously not thrilled with his non-response.

“Listen… do you want me to come home? I can come back.”

Charlie chokes on his own spit. “What?”

“I’ll just explain that there’s a family emergency and then have my mom come pick me up. It won’t be a big deal. If that would make you feel better—,”

He can’t think of anything that would make him feel worse. Zay worked so hard to be at the Kossal program, and there isn’t anyone who deserves to be there more. He feels bad enough about this phone call—if Zay ended his camp stay early because of him, he would not be able to live with himself. That would be the greatest punishment he thinks the universe could inflict upon him.

“No! No. No, no—!” Charlie screws his eyes shut, shaking his head as if that’ll shake off the possibility entirely. “No, do not do that. You cannot do that.”

“Okay, okay! Relax. I just don’t know what else to suggest.” Zay’s voice is so soft with sincerity, it feels like a punch to the gut. “I’m worried about you.”

It’s amazing how one phrase can make him feel so conflicted. The fact that Zay is thinking about him at all is enlightening, a rare kind of bliss that he can feel in every nerve in his body. But the way he had to learn it and the fact that Zay has to be expending any worry towards him is less than ideal.

Charlie keeps his eyes closed, chewing on his lip and trying to figure out what to do. Regardless of what’s going on with him, he’s not going to be the thing that holds back Zay Babineaux.

“I’ll be fine,” he assures him. He says the statement with as much confidence as he can muster, which isn’t much, but he wills the words to be true. “You cannot give up the Kossal program, dude. You worked way too hard. That’s where I want you to be. That’s where I want your focus to be. Forget about me.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Zay says flatly, but with that special tone reserved just for him where deadpan sort of sounds fond.

The smile that creeps onto his face doesn’t feel deserved, but he’s always had that effect on him.

“Okay, so don’t forget. Just… I’ll be okay. Please don’t let me derail the rest of your experience. I appreciate the concern, seriously, you have no idea how much. But I’ll be fine. In spite of how my unfortunate voicemail may have made things seem.”

Zay’s quiet on the other end of the line. Probably contemplating whether or not to believe him. Although he has absolutely no right to ask anything of the Heavenly Father, he finds himself praying that he’ll help convince him.

“I’ll be back in two weeks,” he finally says. Charlie exhales in relief. “In two weeks, we’ll meet up and we’ll talk about everything. Okay? Does that work?”

He can’t make any promises about being brave enough to talk, but for now he’s just happy he’s not going to be the thing that makes him end his Kossal experience early.

“Okay. Yeah. Sounds great.”

There’s a strange increase in volume from wherever he is. Zay goes quiet for a few moments, then speaks more quickly when he returns.

“I have to go,” he explains, but he doesn’t sound pleased about it. Charlie doesn’t know how to feel about that. “But two weeks. And I’ll text you. I should’ve been doing that anyway, I just—I’m here, okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Charlie,” Zay states firmly. As if he knows the power he has, how him saying his name can get him to snap to attention and undo him all at once.

Case in point, it gets him to listen.

“I’ll see you soon.”

It’s a declaration. A promise, not up for debate. A bit terrifying, but also the most exhilarating thing anyone has ever said to him. The thing that’s going to get him through the next two weeks.

Charlie feels the ache decrease somewhat. Like he’s already taken a painkiller, despite how he hasn’t gotten out of bed. “See you soon.”

Zay bids him one last goodbye, ending the call and leaving him behind once more. But this time it doesn’t feel nearly as isolating. The distance between them feels manageable now, not cold with uncertainty.

Glancing at his phone, he decides he should investigate those dozen or so messages. One is from Rosie, requesting that he text her when he wakes up. A couple are from Daisy, asking what’s wrong since Rosie told her he was sick and then following up with when she thinks she’ll be home from the Carmichaels. A couple belong to the family group chat, where his mother has assured them of their safe travels and is keeping them updated on their visit with grandma and grandpa.

Then, there’s Zay. At first he wants to avoid them, but knowing that he wasn’t upset with him makes it easier to take the plunge and open the thread. The messages start bright and early when he must’ve gotten up and heard the voicemail, when Charlie was dead to the world and wouldn’t rouse for another handful of hours.

_Charlie are you awake_

_Are you okay??_

_Just listened to your voicemail. You’re not bothering me and you don’t need to apologize. Text me when you get this so I know you’re okay_

_Please tell me you’re okay_

_Charlie I mean it_

_I swear to God if you’re fine and you’re just ignoring me then I’m gonna kill you myself_

_Sorry. G*d_

_CHARLIE_

_I’m not mad at you. Literally I don’t care about any of that shit you talked about. I just want to know that you’re okay. You’re not alone_

_Okay fuck this I’m calling you_

It’s strange, crying and laughing at the same time. Unfamiliar, at least, since he can’t remember the last time he laughed hard enough to cry, and this sensation is nothing like that. It’s a distinct sense of bittersweet, a confusing mix of guilt and relief and something that must be close to what it feels like to be truly cared about.

Two weeks. He can make it two more weeks. Especially when he remembers he’s far from alone.


	4. new friends ( maya )

For Maya, summer is a paradox of conflicting emotions.

On the one hand, she enjoys the freedom. In the most literal sense, summer is the time of year where she gets to let her hair down. No more obsessing over performances, getting up at the crack of dawn to polish her look, keeping everything in tip-top shape for the hours she spends in the walls of Adams. She gets to swap her sharp ensembles for cotton shorts and crop tops, and she saves a sizable chunk of her limited savings by not having to buy new makeup considering she’s wearing less and less of it. Although she still gives her hair the same careful treatment each night to keep it healthy and at full gloss, she doesn’t have to worry about how it looks when she throws it up in a ponytail or messy bun to loaf around the apartment. She still does her daily vocal runs and spends an hour doing stretches to keep herself limber, and her afternoon jog keeps her in shape, but otherwise the day is hers to wile away in whatever form she most prefers.

On the other hand, she _hates_ the freedom. Freedom means no structure, and no structure means time wasted. She gets restless hanging around the apartment on her own waiting for Katy to return from the diner, and she can only spend much time down there herself before she starts to feel greasy from all of the comfort food. And given how hard she goes during the school year, she doesn’t exactly have friends knocking down her door to hang out with her.

A break here and there is nice, but three months without the exhilaration of performing or the invigorating sweat of a good rehearsal is near torture. Sure, she doesn’t care for the academics and she might come off like a diva, but Maya loves the hours she spends in that auditorium. She likes her classmates, regardless of their talent level or potential competition they pose, and it’s boring stepping through the summer days without their snark and passion and excitement. She loves being surrounded by people who are just as invested in the world of performance as she is, which leaves the long days of summer vacation lonely and listless.

Sometimes, only sometimes, she actually thinks she might even miss the techies. On those days she makes her jogs double the length, to effectively sweat out whatever insanity is attempting to seize her.

It doesn’t help that this summer feels particularly harsh. Aside from the heat, Maya is fully aware of how isolated she feels in the aftermath of how sophomore year ended. Zay is gone for the Kossal program, and Yindra and Nigel aren’t likely to hang out with her without him there as a buffer. Chai is already leaving for London, and Darby is going to be gone for two months while her family joins her mom for animal cancer research in Finland. Sarah isn’t going anywhere, but similar to how Yindra feels about her, Maya isn’t inclined to hang out with her one-on-one all that often unless Darby is there to be the necessary shot of sweetness that compliments their strong personalities.

Then, there’s Farkle.

_Can we just talk this through?_

Maya doesn’t know how many times she goes through their text conversations in the first month of summer, turning over the words in her head until they’re worn of meaning. She listens to the couple of voicemails he left her before he gave up, both incendiary and groveling, trying to get anything out of her other than silence.

_There’s nothing to talk about._

When he stops bothering to reach out, Maya doesn’t know if she’s relieved or disappointed. But it’s too much to pick apart when she’s feeling so out of sorts anyway, and she knows that he doesn’t deserve her sympathy. It was his choice to blow up their friendship out of jealousy, and regardless of how he feels about it now he still did it. If she’s learned anything in her life, it’s that people don’t deserve second chances.

She inherited the pleasure of learning that lesson early into her life, and she’s not going to ever fall for the same tricks again.

After a certain point, she clears their message thread entirely. Deletes the voicemails. Forgets the memories.

Poof.

That solves one problem as she locks the emotion around it away deep in her chest, but it doesn’t help the boredom. She can only run through numbers in her repertoire so many times before the fun of it fades without applause to reenergize her. She’s already cycled through all the items in her wardrobe and worked out ensemble combinations for the first three weeks of school come September.

Just as she’s simmering away in the summer heat, scrolling through her contacts and starting to decide if she can handle the social suicide of reaching out to someone lame for the sake of maintaining her sanity, opportunity comes knocking quite literally on her apartment door.

She freezes at first, sitting up on the couch and debating scrambling up to her loft bedroom to hide. That’s what she used to do when she was little, gripped with this strange visceral fear of social interaction whenever a mailman or pizza guy came by. For a person so attuned to being the center of attention, there’s some youthful instinct in her that can’t be overcome to run and hide at the presentation of an unfamiliar face.

Still, Maya quickly shakes off the weaker instinct and pushes to her feet. It doesn’t even occur to her that the person could be someone she knows, so she doesn’t bother to touch up her appearance or pull on a shirt more impressive than her faded Paramore concert tee that she cut into a crop top.

So when she pulls open the door and Isadora De La Cruz is standing there on her welcome mat, it’s definitely an unexpected surprise.

Summer. Too much freedom, too much room for surprises.

She’s never liked surprises.

Isadora stares at her, as if she didn’t anticipate she might actually open the door to greet her. Maya stares back, for once in her life not sure what to say. Her mouth hangs open slightly, ready to fire words like bullets as she’s so well equipped to do, but nothing comes out. The trigger is jammed, brain too stunned, so the silence survives instead.

So uncharacteristically, it’s Isadora who gets in the first word. She takes another moment to look over Maya in all her de-glammed glory, almost like she can’t quite believe it. Then she finds the power of speech.

“Hi.”

Maya hesitates, subconsciously adjusting her ponytail. “Um… hi.”

Isadora realizes it’s her turn to speak. “Are you busy?” She crosses her arms, scratching at her elbows. Maya realizes she doesn’t think she’s actually ever seen her forearms—she always wears long sleeves during the school year. But it’s far too hot for that now. “Sorry, maybe I should’ve texted or something. I think I have your number. I was just, uh, in the area—,”

Considering Isadora lives off the island with her foster family, Maya is fairly sure she was not just hanging around the area. Not many people would choose to come hang around her neighborhood anyway, so her doubts are well-founded. It’s far more likely that for whatever reason, Isadora decided she wanted to come spend time with her least favorite diva.

Then again, they weren’t exactly on terrible terms at the end of last term. She did help Isadora with her audition for Kossal—which she did impressively well, Maya might add—and although their opinions rarely aligned, she’s always held a great deal of respect for their ferocious technical director. Anyone who can command an entire room while standing at five feet tall and no more is worthy of recognition—Maya would know, after all.

And perhaps, maybe she’s here for the exact same reasons Maya has been losing her mind all summer. Maybe loneliness isn’t confined just to her, and she’s also searching for somebody to fight off the heat-induced hysteria before it drives them certifiably insane.

“No, I actually was just finishing up a… I just wrapped up a mini rehearsal. Excellent timing,” Maya fibs, letting out an exhale as if she just enjoyed an energizing workout. “You wanna come in?”

She seems uncertain, but Isadora nods and steps past her into the apartment. Even though it’s not the first time she’s been inside, she takes a good look around as she saunters her way inside. “You rehearse even in the summer?”

“What, do you think being the best just comes naturally?” Maya scoffs. She shrugs offhandedly. “I mean, it does, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to do my due maintenance. Even the best machines have to stay well-oiled.”

“Oh, yeah. For sure.”

Maya finds she has a million questions. For starters, she wants to outright ask what the hell Isadora is doing slumming it with her. Not that _she’s _the bottom of the barrel by any means, but she’s sure in the techie circles she’s probably only a tier above Farkle Minkus and Wyatt Livingston in terms of people worth wasting a second on. Besides, Isadora is so firmly entrenched in that circle. She’s essentially the techie queen. She should have plenty of people to hang out with on a summer afternoon, most prominently her second-in-command.

Yet, Maya finds herself avoiding the topic. She gets the feeling if Isadora wanted to discuss it, she would’ve made a point of indicating as such—either that, or she would be _there _dealing with it rather than in her apartment.

“You know, they finally put that rendition of _Grease Live! _on streaming.”

Isadora eyes her. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t planning to watch it, but I’m a sucker for Jordan Fisher. Also, I heard Vanessa Hudgens was pretty good, which I can believe since she definitely carried the _High School Musicals_ in terms of raw talent. I mean, I’m a Sharpay fan, of course—,”

“No way? I never would’ve guessed.”

“But anyway, I bet it would be worth a watch with a technical director. You can definitely point out everything that’s wrong with it, at least,” Maya says cheekily. She crosses her arms, raising her eyebrows. “What do you say?”

At this point, it doesn’t seem like there are many better options. Isadora hesitates and then manages a smile—strange, shared between the two of them who are so accustomed to sniping at each other over the best way to approach a production.

“Sure. But fair warning, I will be brutal.”

“Oh, I expected nothing less,” Maya assures her, sliding over to their cheap console and attempting to set up the video.

For how haphazardly the afternoon fell into her lap, Maya is surprised to discover the time is actually well spent. Isadora is as ruthless in her commentary as she warned, but Maya finds it hilarious. She’s never been opposed to some brutal honesty, and beating around the bush doesn’t do anybody any favors. In fact, she realizes as Isadora is lamenting the way they’re doing camera angles on the production that she’s never much minded when she gets criticism from her during class. If Lucas points out her flaws she has a tendency to roll her eyes, and if either of his little twink sidekicks speak to her she feels like clawing her own ears off, but it’s never been that way with Isadora.

It’s because she respects her opinion. Do they agree, rarely, but she knows Isadora knows enough about what she’s talking about and speaks confidently enough on it that it makes her worth listening to. Maya can certainly relate. For all their differences that are more than obvious, perhaps there’s a lot more in common between them than she was willing to acknowledge.

Maybe, in some crazy convoluted version of the world, the two of them could actually be friends.

This impromptu hangout is good evidence to the point, in any case. When the performance ends and they’re recapping the production as a whole, Maya finds both of them agreeing with one another and bursting into laughter way more than they ever do in class. Allowed to be on the same page in the freedom of summer, when all of the other factors are no longer in play.

Isadora reclines back further onto the couch, smile still lingering on her face as she fiddles with a stray thread on her tee. She glances at Maya again, pausing before choosing what she wants to say next. “I didn’t realize you liked Paramore.”

“Please. Hayley Williams is an inspiration. Not quite my genre, but if I can build a career like hers then I think I’ll be set.” Maya stretches her feet out on the coffee table. “Although I plan to do mine without so many men involved, if I can help it.”

“Can’t fault you that.”

“But yeah, everyone likes Paramore. At least, everyone likes ‘Misery Business.’ I’m more partial to their self-titled album, but it’s whatever.”

“You’re so right,” Isadora admits. She brightens, tilting her head back against the couch cushions. “I don’t know how many times I listened to ‘Misery Business’ in freshman year. Lucas and I would just sit around and listen to it on repeat to the point that we both knew the all the words—and that’s a big deal when it comes to him, because he doesn’t know like any music. Not like we related to the lyrics or anything, but I think… it just has that vibe, you know?”

She does. She, too, has never been jilted by another woman stealing her lover—nor has she ever felt so attached to someone she would consider them a lover by any means, the very idea sort of disgusts her—but she sure knows how it feels to be so angry. Sometimes she doesn’t know where it comes from, but the song reflects a subdued rage that Maya understands more than anything. She thinks that’s one reason she loves Paramore so much—she might not relate on a textual level, but Hayley gets how it feels to be an angry woman trapped in a world that doesn’t take nicely to women with fierce emotions.

She also notes it’s the first time that Isadora has even mentioned her best friend all afternoon. From how tightly knit they always seemed at school, she figured he would’ve come up long before now. There’s an odd element to the way she’s speaking about him too, a wistfulness that seems more suited to something distant, something far away rather than the friend you spend practically all of your time with.

Well, Maya reminds herself, she is here with her rather than with said best friend. She finds herself curious to hear what might be going—perhaps the aftermath of everything the _AAAC _unleashed is as messy with the techies as it is with them, despite how iron-clad they present—but she also finds she doesn’t want to know.

She figures the less she knows about Lucas James Friar, in all aspects, the easier her life will be.

Right now, she’s more interested in exploring whatever fascinating and bewildering new friendship might be right in front of her.

“You know, there’s this local band that does a lot of Paramore covers,” Maya says. “They play at Svorski’s on Saturday nights.”

“They do?” Isadora frowns. “How did I not know that? We hit up Svorski’s all the time.”

“Well, maybe you just haven’t been going with the right people.”

This seems to land with Isadora in a way Maya wasn’t implying. She blinks, absorbing the thought and averting her gaze to her Converse pressed against the side of the coffee table.

“Anyway, I’ve got a pretty busy schedule, but I might be able to move some things around if you wanna go check them out this weekend.” Maya releases a sigh, theatrical as is her forte. “Just let me know soon, because I’ve got you know, lots of people to connect with and rearrange deets.”

Isadora side eyes her, clearly seeing through her facade. How much is unclear, but after a moment she must decide dealing with the theatricality is worth a night of not being alone.

“Okay,” she says hesitantly. Then she reminds herself to be unshakeable, sharpening her expression and nodding. “Okay, I’m down. Saturday it is.”

Maya beams, offering a hand to shake on it and raising her eyebrows. Isadora only pauses a second before confirming, linking their hands together and shaking firmly. Decisively.

Despite how much Maya dislikes the freedoms and heat and surprises of summer, perhaps this one won’t turn out so blistering after all.


	5. homecoming ( zay )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Katie for being the original mastermind behind this sequence and allowing me to bring it life. :')

All things considered, Zay likes to think he’s a patient person.

Okay, so that’s not entirely true. He might hate waiting in line, which is why he’s never been a fan of amusement parks. He often finds himself wishing for Farkle and Maya’s diva performances to go much faster, so they can be over with already and they all can move on. His tolerance for mediocrity is lower than he would like to admit, which is why when it comes to dance tutoring in class he’s quick to let Charlie handle their less adept classmates. When it comes to teaching others, Charlie is the most patient person Zay has ever met.

It’s ironic, then, that Charlie is the chief reason Zay’s own patience has hit empty.

He’s not sure how to go about navigating this sort of situation. Although Charlie assured him he would be okay until he returned from camp—which he is grateful for, because the experience was worth every second—Zay is still worried about him. And it doesn’t help that he hasn’t responded to his texts since he got back into Queens, despite being relatively reliable for the past couple of weeks. He’s made more than a couple of calls that have gone unanswered, and left one or two voicemails trying to work out when they’re going to reunite so they can figure out what the hell is going on.

Zay values having a plan more than anything in spite of how laid back he seems, so for anything surrounding his friend-maybe-more-than-friend-closeted-nightmare-boy to feel settled, he needs to actually have a full grasp on the situation. But to accomplish that, he needs said friend-maybe-more-than-friend-closeted-nightmare-boy to call him back.

Even still, he doesn’t want to push him. He knows how difficult this sort of thing can be, and that’s only from his own personal experience. He didn’t have any religious influence heightening all of the fear and confusion—he can only imagine that makes it far worse. And just from how haphazardly their relationship has developed, in these erratic, sudden moments of action and non-het clarity, Zay is fairly certain Charlie has no idea what he’s doing. He’s feeling, not thinking, and that’s always how it starts until you get consumed with the thinking bit.

And sometimes, people never get past that part.

Zay wants Charlie to be able to get past the mental spiral. He wants him to realize it’s not the end of the world, that it’s going to all work out in the end no matter what he chooses to do, and he he wants to help with that in whatever way he can.

Yet again, to accomplish any of that, Charlie has to let him in the first place.

What he really needs to do is give Zay a sign. His voicemail inbox has to be running out of space, especially once Zay resorts to leaving obnoxiously long voicemails. One time, he waits for the beep and just plays the entirety of “Telephone” by Beyonce and Lady Gaga before concluding with a resounding demand for him to call him back.

There’s also that voice in the back of his head, the one Zay desperately tries to ignore. The one who is indignant, frustrated, and a little pissed off. The one who doesn’t want to be saddled with helping a baby gay figure out their way in the world, who can’t believe Charlie has the gall to do all this and then _ghost _him.

_Empathy and sympathy be damned—if he’s going to insist on kissing you without warning, then scaring the hell out of you by leaving the most broken down drunk dial in the history of white foolishness, then he better come correct and actually _face _you._

It’s the indignant little voice who, rightfully, doesn’t want to stomach navigating another complicated relationship with a white boy.

As Zay reminds himself, though, the two situations are _not _the same. His last boyfriend Brooklyn had red flags from the get-go, and his personality is a far cry from Charlie’s—manipulative, self-centered, self-righteous—in fact, Charlie is exactly the kind of person Brooklyn would diminish, claiming he’s not “gay” enough if he’s not going to proudly come out of the closet regardless of circumstances. Their age and thus power imbalance added a whole other layer of issues (why Zay ever thought dating his school-assigned student mentor who was two years his senior was ever a good idea he doesn’t know, but then it wasn’t exactly his responsibility to be the one smart and wise enough to know not to pursue that kind of relationship), and the way it isolated him and left him high and dry going into sophomore year when all of his and Brooklyn’s mutuals friends jumped ship is something he’s _still _trying to recover from to this day.

Charlie also makes decisions without consulting Zay and jumps the gun, but the scenarios are totally different. Brooklyn’s choices and pressure on Zay were intentional and self-serving, and Zay went along with them because he wanted approval. Because he wanted to save the relationship, to fit in, to feel like he was being a good partner—as loosely as that term could possibly be used. Charlie’s choices are chaotic, instinctual, and the pressure it puts on Zay is clearly unintentional and far from self-beneficial.

The difference is suddenly, Zay is the one with the supposed power, and Charlie is the uncertain one searching for approval. A sign that he’s valid for the choices he’s making, that he’s doing something right. Anything right.

Zay could be a Brooklyn (fat chance of that). He could do nothing, as would be his full right. Or he could trust his gut and his heart and try to do the right thing, regardless of how much of that is driven by a growing fondness for Charlie that surpasses casual friendship.

The other difference is that Zay is choosing his actions because he wants to this time. He kissed Charlie back because when the opportunity suddenly fell into his arms—almost literally—he found he really wanted to. He called Charlie back because he wanted to, wanted to make sure he was okay and maybe just to hear his voice again. He’s practicing patience and trying to make this reunion work now not because he’s obligated, but because he wants to. It’s his choice, and he’s determined to make it happen.

Charlie is nothing like his ex-boyfriend Brooklyn, and the situations are not the same, but that doesn’t that mean that Zay won’t fall into the same patterns. If his choices have to be deliberate then so does his thinking, and he acknowledges the fact that he has to find the balance. He can be patient, but he needs to hold his ground too. If he wants an explanation from Charlie, wants the chance to talk things out—something he definitely think he’s earned and deserves—then he can only give him so many opportunities before he takes matters into his own hands.

So he gives Charlie until the end of the week upon his return, hardly surprised when nothing comes of it. Then he turns his impatience into fuel, forgoing his first Saturday afternoon back home to drive into the city and get his answers.

It takes him some time to figure out exactly where he’s going once he gets back into Manhattan. He remembers the neighborhood Charlie had him drop him off in one time after an after-school hangout, and gratefully while his academic memory and retention are dismal he’s quite good with directions and visuals. He relies on vague clues from the scenery around him to make it the rest of the way there, knowing he’s made it when he recognizes the elegant balcony protruding from the dwelling that belongs to the Gardner family.

Honestly, he feels out of place cruising down the street, dwarfed by the nice buildings and fancy cars parked along the curb. Given how humbly he carries himself, it’s all too easy to forget that Charlie comes from undeniable wealth—nowhere near Farkle Minkus level, but tiers above him and probably half of their classmates. Triple A definitely has a wide range of backgrounds populating its halls, that’s for sure.

Fish out of water syndrome at the forefront of his mind, Zay is extra careful as he pulls into a spot along the curb as to not accidentally dent any shiny vehicles he cannot afford to fix. He puts the car in park and lets out a breath, glancing up at the balcony again as he brainstorms what to do next. He wonders if Charlie is even home, the curtains gently billowing through the glass doors more indicative of the useless summer breeze than activity in the room.

He could go knock on the door, but the risk of one of Charlie’s parents greeting him rather than Charlie himself would probably give him a heart attack. He could send a text, but given their track record for actual responses in the last few days that doesn’t seem like a wise option. Calling him would procure the same results.

Then again… there’s no proof that Charlie hasn’t been listening to his voicemails. He may insist on being a repressed idiot and refuse to acknowledge he heard them, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t. In fact, if Zay has learned anything about his friend in the past year, cherishing a handful of voicemails from the boy he impulsively kissed and then doing absolutely nothing about it going forward sounds like exactly how he’d handle it.

Well, then he just needs to give him something really worth hearing. Couldn’t hurt to test the theory, at the very least.

Zay disconnects his phone from the navigation dock, music stopping as he shifts to the messages app. He’s clicking call on Charlie’s contact a moment later, tapping his foot against the brake pedal impatiently while he waits for the dial tone to run out like he knows it will.

Like clockwork, no answer necessitates the answering machine. Zay patiently waits for the beep, then clears his throat and puts on the most sharply sweet tone he can muster.

“Hi there, dearest Charles. How’s your week been? Good, good, so glad to not hear it. As you know, considering I’ve told you about fifteen times and in four different ways, I’m back in town from camp.” He pauses for dramatic effect, releasing a sigh. “In fact, right now, I’m right outside your building staring up at your stupid balcony wondering when you’re going to stop ghosting me and ignoring my calls. Hopefully soon, because I’m pretty sure this spot is only one-hour free parking, and I’m not getting towed. If I do, you’re paying. Okay, nice not talking to you! Peace out.”

A little harsh, maybe, but Zay thinks he’s earned the right to be a touch savage. He ends the call and reclines back in his seat, eyes glued to the balcony doors and trying to work out the timing in his head.

About two minutes, probably. A minute to actually buck up the courage to listen to the voicemail, thirty seconds to get to the right part…

His timing is impeccable. For how ridiculous it is, part of him wants to laugh when Charlie nearly slams into his balcony door, phone still pressed to his ear and staring down at him like he’s a monster that crawled out of the gutter. He might even feel bad for him if it weren’t for… well, everything else.

Charlie obviously doesn’t know what to do, shifting restlessly and mouthing words to himself as he listens to the rest of the message. He glares at Zay and then disappears from view, presumably to come down to meet him.

Then again, he’s always had a way of swerving away from Zay’s expectations. He’s confused when Charlie reappears in the doorway and steps onto the balcony. Then he’s speechless as Charlie climbs down his _own _balcony, as if he’s sneaking out when it’s bright with daylight at half past noon.

Zay watches him struggle with the complicated maneuver, cataloguing the steps for potential future reference before reminding himself he has no idea how this conversation is going to go. Instead all he’s left to think about is how absolutely ridiculous it is that Charlie Gardner is climbing down his own balcony to meet with him rather than just walking out the front door like a normal person.

“What the hell?”

Charlie hops down the last few feet and then jogs over to his car, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. Whether it’s from the needless dramatic descent or the fact that he’s there at all is unclear. He presses a hand to the passenger side window, shaking his head sharply at Zay in disbelief.

He does his best to remain nonchalant as he rolls down the window to greet him properly. “Hey, Charlie. What was with that climbing down the balcony thing? That really necessary?”

“What—,” Charlie exhales, obviously stunned. He shakes his head again, blinking as if doing so will make Zay evaporate from view. “_What _are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing not answering any of my calls or texts?” Regardless of the sympathy he feels, he’s not going to beat around the bush. Especially when some of the things Charlie seems worried about in this particular instance are undeniably ridiculous. He’s dropped him off at his place before, so him showing up and parking a few feet away isn’t going to do any major damage. “Clearly your voicemail works, so at least we can check that off the list.”

“You can’t just—you can’t just _show _up here. And I wasn’t… I was—,”

“Look, I’m sorry, but—actually no, I’m not that sorry.” Zay glares at him. “You and I had a deal. I didn’t come back from camp because you said you were going to be okay—,”

“And do I seem not okay? No,” Charlie says. Unconvincingly, with the breathlessness and all.

“You said you were going to be okay,” Zay repeats, talking over his protests, “_and _we agreed we were going to talk about it. We were going to talk everything out when I got back. That does _not _mean disappearing off the face of the earth, Charlie.”

“It’s not… I wasn’t,” he huffs. “And maybe that’s true, but that doesn’t mean that you can just drive over here and—,”

“Ah, ah,” Zay says, holding up a finger to silence him. “Drunk dial privileges.”

Charlie blinks at him, bewildered. Unfortunately, he’s still damningly cute even when he’s miffed. “What? What the heck does that mean?”

“It means any good argument you might have had, you forfeited the moment you got drunk and left me an eat-your-heart-out voicemail so concern-worthy that I think I could file for medical compensation. Maya Penelope Hart would be envious of your delivery, which makes sense considering yours actually involved true raw emotion and she hasn’t delivered an authentic performance since birth.” Charlie opens his mouth to argue, but finds nothing to say, so Zay continues. “You drunk dialed, and while I meant it when I said it was okay, you now have to pay the price. Which is one honest conversation, and while I’m still young.”

There’s a long silence. Charlie stares at him, and immediately Zay can feel his defenses crumbling away. It’s evident how uncertain he is, how he’s being pulled in a hundred different directions in his head. As frustrating as his responses have been, they’re understandable, and he’s absolutely no good at hiding his emotion because of it.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits.

“Well, for starters, you could get in the car.”

Charlie hesitates, glancing down at the passenger seat. Then his expressions twists into a grimace, and he lets out another huff as he fights with himself on what to do next.

Finally, he reaches a decision. He backs away from the car, holding up a finger. “One second.”

He starts back towards the house, rolling up his sleeves and gearing up to climb back up the balcony the way he came. Zay shakes his head, leaning towards the window and calling out.

“Charlie!”

He pauses, looking over his shoulder.

Zay gestures to the steps, making a face. “Use the front door!”

Charlie absorbs this, pausing before nodding in defeat and jogging in that direction. Zay lets out an exasperated scoff, leaning forward against the steering wheel and pressing his palms to his eyes. He’s not religious, certainly in comparison to his current company, but he finds himself imitating one of his mother’s habitual declarations of incredulity.

“Lord almighty, give me the strength.”

Charlie returns a few minutes later, using the normal exit and having grabbed his keys and wallet. He freezes for a second with his hand hovering over the car door, then he pulls it open and slides into the passenger seat. He pauses again as he orients with his surroundings as if he’s never been in Zay’s car before, gaze directed anywhere but at him.

He’s not going to let lack of eye contact deter him—although he’d be lying if he claimed he wasn’t a little disappointed. “So—,”

Charlie makes a strange sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a shriek and a low hum. He doesn’t shift his gaze but gently shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest and pressing his fist to his chin anxiously.

So he’s getting a kickstart on learning to translate Charlie Gardner right away. Zay hesitates, trying his best to suss out what he’s trying to say from his posture, expression, and weird vocalizations.

Eventually, he thinks he understands.

_Not here. Too close. Not here._

Zay puts his phone back in the navigation dock. “Down for a drive?”

After a moment, Charlie nods.

Well, it’s better than nothing. Zay debates where to go before lighting up with an idea, keying in the address and preparing to drive once again. “Seatbelt, please.”

It takes a moment, but Charlie responds appropriately. He buckles up as requested, although the gesture is more robotic than it should be.

He’s just scared. Although he has no reason to be with him, Zay understands why. Considering his own experience in these realms, Zay is a little nervous himself. He can only hope that with time and space, Charlie will loosen up again.

Even if it’s just a fraction of the way they used to be with one another, it just has to be enough to have the conversation he’s dying to have.

* * *

As it were, that definitely doesn’t happen on the drive over. It’s at least an hour back to Queens, but Zay gets the sense real quick that Charlie will not be an active conversation participant. Zay tries a couple of times to prompt something out of him but he’s just met with quiet, Charlie keeping his gaze glued out the window. The only reason Zay can be sure it’s anxious rather than cold silence is the way Charlie is fidgeting, digging his fingernails into his forearms where they’re crossed over his chest.

“Okay, I’ll just talk then,” Zay says, keeping his focus on the road in front of him. “That cool? Can I talk?”

Charlie nods, quicker than before. Like even though he can’t say it, he’s desperate for the silence to be broken too.

So Zay talks. He doubts it’s very interesting, but he searches for any relatively harmless topic he can think of to ramble about for forty-five minutes. He starts with camp, of course, which thankfully gives him a lot to share. He tells Charlie all about the programs they did, the people he met, the performances he gave. He tells him about his roommate, Henrik, who attends Quincy and told him all about how much the public schools resent Triple A for their elitism. So in some ways, their fast friendship was almost a star-crossed vibes sort of deal.

“He even said that when he found out he was assigned the delegate from Triple A, his senior classmates warned him from the get-go that it would be terrible. Like, he went in fully prepared to hate me because of reputations of people like… Maya and Farkle. You know? Luckily it worked out, but isn’t that crazy?”

Charlie doesn’t really respond, but he gives just enough signal that he’s listening that Zay feels comfortable continuing. He’s more interested in noting the small ways that Charlie seems to be relaxing—after about ten minutes, his arms drift down from his chest to clasped together on his lap. He slouches a little more in his seat, but in an easy way rather than shying away. He can manage a hum or a scoff here or there—quiet, still, but better than nothing.

He doesn’t say anything until they’re about fifteen minutes away, having spent most of the time doing nothing but letting Zay ramble. He’s in the midst of a rousing recap about how he, Henrik, and a couple of girls laid the checkmate move in a prank war against a crop of pretentious boys, including the Haverford delegate, when Charlie finally opts to speak at all. It’s not at all related to the story, and it’s so timid Zay almost doesn’t catch it.

“Missed you.”

The car goes silent save for the music playing through Bluetooth and the navigation telling him he has to take a turn in three-quarters of a mile. Zay glances away from the road to look at him, trying to figure out if he imagined it or heard him right. He’s chewing his lip and still gazing out the car window rather than at him, but the light flush in his cheeks indicates Zay did in fact register the words correctly.

That, and he doesn’t think his heart has ever skipped quite that way before. He doesn’t think it would for any other reason.

Zay pauses, searching for the proper response. He tries to deliver it as delicately as possible.

“I missed you, too.”

Another few seconds of nothing. Then he catches Charlie smile—the lightest and subtlest version of it he’s ever seen, but still unmistakable.

Zay decides maybe there’s hope for this debacle after all.

* * *

When they pull up at their usual diner, Charlie seems to have chilled somewhat even though Zay basically has to push him through the doors to keep him upright. The fact that they even have a “usual” spot speaks enough for itself, he has to think, but he decides to hold off on pointing that out for now. Baby steps.

Besides, he’s fairly certain that Charlie already knows that. It’s just about what he’s willing and ready to acknowledge.

As they make their way inside, one of the waitresses, Mad Maddi, greets them cheerfully.

“There’s the legendary Isaiah Babineaux. Back from camp finally?” She brightens further when she spots Charlie next to him, obviously recognizing him from the multiple times they’ve come here together. “And hey, I remember you! Great to see you again.”

Charlie manages a tight smile, making another noise that Zay figures is supposed to be a friendly greeting but comes out more like he’s strangling himself.

He pats his shoulders bracingly, offering a charming grin to Maddi. “Good to be back, on all counts. Forgive him, he’s… having a day.”

Charlie doesn’t have the power to object, which kind of makes the point for him.

“Got it. Start y’all with waters?”

“And a plate of fries, if you can hack it. Definitely going to need it.”

Zay directs Charlie further into the establishment, picking a table in the far back corner to give him the illusion of privacy. They’re quiet again as they settle into the booth and Maddi brings by their waters, Zay quickly ordering his usual coffee because he’s positive he’ll need the caffeinated support to get through this conversation. The fact that Charlie is avoiding his gaze and practically ripping up the napkin in front of him essentially guarantees that.

Finally, once the plate of fries has been laid between them and Zay has assured Maddi he’ll let her know if they need anything else, Charlie offers his second brilliant words of the afternoon.

“Why?”

Zay blinks, once again trying to confirm he actually spoke. Charlie is actually looking at him this time, so that makes it a bit easier.

Translating the meaning behind it, however, is just as difficult. “I’m sorry?” Zay takes a fry off the plate, twirling it in his fingers. “I’m sorry, man, I didn’t take Vague English as an elective. You’re going to have to give me a little more than that.”

It takes a moment for Charlie to collect the words to try again. He frowns to himself, closing his eyes and working through it in his head. Trying to get his brain to function properly in spite of the terror.

“Why… this.” He shakes his head, scrunching his face. Closer. “Why are you doing this?”

“What? Eating these fries? Someone has to. And by that I mean you, because I’m kind of concerned you won’t eat if I don’t force it on you.”

“No, I mean… all this.” He opens his eyes, meeting Zay’s and attempting to hold his gaze. “Why are you doing this?”

It’s evident he’s truly giving it his best, so Zay decides to stop poking fun at him. If they’re going to actually talk about it, this would be the in, so he can’t afford to give that up. Zay leans forward on his elbows, raising his eyebrows.

“What did you _think _was going to happen?”

Charlie seems surprised by the question. “Um. Nothing.”

“You drunk dialed.”

“Yes, but—,”

“You kissed me.”

“Well,” Charlie coughs, clearing his throat.

“We kissed, and then we agreed we were going to talk about it,” Zay says. “So where does that not line up with what we’re doing right now?”

Charlie speaks quickly. “I don’t know, I just thought… I don’t know. I thought we’d just forget about it.”

It’s difficult to decipher which part of Charlie is speaking for him. Naturally, the terrified part of him would like for all of this to just disappear. The way his anxiety sees it, Zay assumes, if they pretend it never happened then it didn’t. He could reverse the clock, go back on all the decisions he’s been making for months that are obviously conflicting for him. Part of him is hoping they can just forget it, that Zay would have let it drop.

On the other hand, he can see the glimmer of uncertainty in his expression that betrays an ulterior motive. For as easy as it would be to forget it and pretend it never happened so they can move on with no harm no foul—easy in theory, at least—Charlie doesn’t want to forget it. He’s suggesting that’s the clear way forward out of a different kind of fear, the self-preserving kind that protects him from potential injury before it happens. The fear that figured Zay _was _going to just let it drop, but out of disinterest rather than spite or negligence. If Charlie wipes the slate first, if he claims it’s not a big deal or not worth unpacking, then he saves himself the pain of Zay doing it for him.

For every angle Charlie has looked at this situation from, he has never found one that gives him a victory. So he’s prepared for the perspective that keeps him best defended—denial and avoidance.

Well, he clearly hasn’t gotten good at factoring Zay Babineaux into his schematics yet. Because he’s not into denial, and for some reason, he definitely wouldn’t call how he feels towards Charlie anything like disinterest.

Zay crosses his arms on the table, aiming to sound matter-of-fact. “Well, I can’t forget it.”

Definitely not the answer Charlie was expecting. His eyes widen, processing the words and trying to figure out to which of his disaster scenarios they apply. When he comes up empty and realizes this is taking a turn he never anticipated, his expression softens.

“Oh.”

The exclamation hangs in the space between them, delicate as the way it was spoken. Zay lets the realization sink in, taking a pointed sip of his coffee.

Even though nothing is inherently settled, and they haven’t discussed anything Zay actually wants to know, it’s a relief when Charlie reaches forward and starts scarfing down French fries. It’s nice to see him actually eating, for one, but it signals a step in the right direction that Zay was dreading would never come.

A return to form, whatever that form might be now as they move forward figuring out the rest.

* * *

Addressing the elephant in the room does wonders for the strain between them. Once the anxiety recedes and Charlie gets the blood flowing to his brain normally again, Zay is glad to see him ease back into a more familiar rendition of himself. He contributes a bit more to the conversation as they shift into safer topics, like the summer thus far and all the media Zay’s missed while he was away. They polish off the fries no problem. Some of the color returns to his face.

By the time they’re heading out, he even has the energy to give Maddi a wave of thanks. She returns it, giving Zay a wink as he steps out behind him.

On the drive back, Charlie asks for more stories about the Kossal program. Although it’s obviously a change of subject meant to distract from the other question marks left unaddressed in their dynamic, Zay allows it for two reasons. Firstly, he knows how overwhelming even just acknowledging it must have been for him, and so long as he’s willing to actually keep _up _the conversation from here on out, then there isn’t a rush to get everything figured out. Zay believes they will make all the necessary decisions in due time, and he finds he doesn’t mind waiting.

After all, if Charlie ends up ghosting again, now he knows he can just show up at his doorstep and spook him into a confrontation. He’s not above fighting fire with fire, but he gets the feeling it won’t be necessary.

Second of all (and most compelling), the shy but eager smile on Charlie’s face when he requests the discussion is more than enough of a reason to comply. It’s the closest thing to his familiar grin that he’s offered all afternoon, and Zay missed it more than he’d like to admit. So he takes what he can get, and entertains Charlie with more tales of the summer camp all the way back to the island.

As they pull up towards his house, Charlie has him park a ways down the block. Zay thinks its sort of dumb but doesn’t object, finding a free spot on the curb and putting the car in park.

Much like when he showed up a couple hours ago, the two of them move sluggishly as if gripped with indecision. Charlie takes a long time to unbuckle his seatbelt, and then doesn’t make any move towards the door once he does. Zay is grateful for it, because he finds he has more he wants to say.

“I couldn’t have done it without you, you know.”

Charlie blinks, frowning in confusion. “Done what?”

“The Kossal thing. The audition, or like, getting in.”

“What? Shut up, dude.” Charlie shakes his head. “You got in because you’re the obvious choice. The best performer in our class, for starters. And your performance was killer.”

Stunning. Breathtaking. Zay remembers the words he said to him the night of the audition, right before he kissed him and everything flipped sideways. They’re branded into his brain, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget them.

“_That’s _why you got in. You. It didn’t have anything to do with me.”

Charlie is wearing a similar expression now to the one he had back then, thoughtful and a bit wistful. He’s looking out the dashboard window rather than at him, but his features are still radiating his feelings loud and clear. Considering how much Zay feels as though Charlie’s expression speaks volumes for him, he has to admit he’s surprised he doesn’t get more credit as a performer in their class. He’s performing every single day, just like he said in his voicemail, and his peers have no fucking clue.

Yet, somehow, Zay got a behind-the-scenes look. If he can help it, he’s not going to squander it.

“Yeah, okay, I’m not going to argue with you there,” Zay admits. “But you were pretty instrumental in getting me there. You were the one who practiced with me for hours on end, and then gave me the right idea to scrap it because I was tying myself into knots. I wouldn’t have thrown it away and done the audition that actually got me the honor if it weren’t for you.” He watches Charlie carefully, still trying to translate the small shifts in his expression into words he won’t speak for himself. “A performer is as good as their talent, but it’s also about who they’ve got raising them up. And if you weren’t one of those people, I don’t think I would’ve been the one going to Kossal. That’s what I know.”

Charlie manages to meet his eyes, absorbing the sentiment. The air between them suddenly feels thinner. Zay wonders if he should say something else, or maybe ask the questions he’s been itching to ask since the night of the audition. Maybe tell him how he finds him wholly endearing in spite of how ridiculous and frustrating he can be, how he thought about him every day he was away. How he thinks he might be worth the risk of falling into the same pitfalls he already has, if it means a potential something with him. Maybe he should _do _something, although he has no idea what would be acceptable and not make things worse.

It’s all moot anyway. Charlie clears his throat a second later, looping his lanyard around his neck and sitting up straighter. “Well, I should really go.”

Zay blinks off the daze, nodding in agreement. He doesn’t know what he was expecting—he just finished convincing himself on the drive back over that he was okay with being patient. It’s going to take time to figure out what things are meant to be between them, that much is clear.

And yet, if Zay should have learned anything by now, it’s that he can never predict what Charlie is liable to do next. He hesitates as he opens the car door, only cracking it open a couple of inches before he changes his mind.

Instead, he leans back over the median and gives Zay a peck on the lips. Quick, impulsive, so sudden and fleeting Zay feels as though he doesn’t get the chance to even enjoy it before Charlie is launching himself out of the vehicle and scrambling onto the sidewalk.

As he’s trying to catch up with what the hell just happened, Charlie doubles back from having made his exit halfway down the street. He darts back to the passenger door, knocking on the glass and not waiting for Zay to roll down the window.

“I’ll call you,” he promises. Then he spins back around, throwing the addendum over his shoulder as he goes. “I mean it this time!”

Zay watches in disbelief as Charlie sprints the rest of the way back to his house, moving with an impressive amount of energy considering how useless he was for most of the afternoon. He makes the bewildering choice of climbing back up the side of his balcony instead of using the front door, glancing back over his shoulder towards Zay one more time and flashing that ghost of a smile again before he disappears back into his ivory tower.

Zay shakes his head, scoffing to himself. Willing himself to be patient with everything else that remains unsettled, but certain that when it comes to Charlie Gardner, he’s most definitely fucked.

Ridiculous. Frustrating. Wholly endearing.

Somehow, he thinks he might be okay with that.


	6. persistent parties, part i ( asher )

The longer the season stretches on, the more Asher wonders if he’s ever cared for summer at all.

The more he thinks about it, the more he thinks the season’s capitalist hold on much of America is an unwarranted devotion. It has this daydream reputation to it, days filled with sunshine and freedom and absolutely zero responsibility to anything other than one’s own whimsy. The break from school makes it popular with the youth, and the prorated flights and summer sales somehow win over everyone else. It’s allure is essentially mythic, beloved not because it earned it but because society has collectively deemed it so.

Asher is done being duped, thank you very much. With each day he crosses off on his calendar in the month of June and into July, he comes up with another reason why he finds the sunshine season the most detestable time of year.

For one, it’s disgusting outside. He wouldn’t call himself a fan of winter either, Manhattan having a special propensity for oil-slicked snow sludge caking all the sidewalks, but at least snow is pretty when it’s falling. At least when the weather gets unbearably chilly, he can bundle up in layers—pull on another one of Dylan’s sweatshirts or wrap up in a quilt and the problem is solved.

In the city, summer feels like being in a toaster oven. All that lauded sunshine beams down and bakes the concrete, the heat rising up and creating a muggy atmosphere so thick with humidity it sticks to everything and makes him want to choke. And with the record highs they’ve been hitting since the last week of June, it’s particularly unbearable this year.

“Climate change is real,” Dylan is always saying, a bemusing combination of wise and ominous as he consumes another Flavor Ice.

More than that, too much freedom is dangerous. It’s nice to have free time, but without responsibility to balance the scales it feels like a recipe for disaster. He wouldn’t argue that he and his classmates don’t deserve a well-earned break every now and then, but three months of nothing but bending to whatever careless impulse they brainstorm up that day is far from an improvement. Sure, he’s an outlier and he actually _likes _having structure and doing his summer reading, but he’s pretty sure his friends would survive the summer without making as many stupid decisions if it weren’t nearly so long and reputably carefree.

He’d say as much, but the last time he tried to get on his soapbox Nate called him an authoritarian and switched the group chat name to “Asher the Authoritarian” for three weeks without changing it. So he keeps his rule-loving opinions to himself.

Case in point, Asher can’t think of a better example for his stance than Lucas. He’s got a lot of pent up energy and no outlet to funnel it into with Adams closed for the summer, so he’s actively seeking out ways to push the envelope. Whenever the three of them hang out, he’s always got some new convoluted plan he wants to put into action, and the plans are never good—or, increasingly, legal. Sometimes he defaults to the tried and true methods, like blowing up bottle rockets. Occasionally, he goes off the grid entirely, disappearing for days on end without a word until he suddenly floats back into their life with no comment on his absence and another ten bad ideas up his sleeve.

There’s no question as to why he’s behaving this way. Lucas has always been a few steps away from crossing the line, and he’s got plenty of factors in his life pushing him closer and closer to it. Given how last semester ended in such epic humiliation, he was going to be pushing it from the get go. His dad is home more often in the summer, so that never helps. And now he’s got all this free time to do nothing but brood, ruminate on the toxic energy until it consumes him and gives him a new bad idea for each of the internal wounds he has festering that he refuses to acknowledge.

Asher knows all this, so it’s difficult to be frustrated with him. He’s his best friend, and he believes that as capable as Lucas is of tiptoeing the line, he’s also capable of doing better. He believes it because he’s seen it, and he can’t fathom the idea that he’s a lost cause. And the last thing he wants to do is leave him _alone _with all those negative factors, so it’s on him and Dylan to hold him back from jumping off the deep end entirely.

What this ends up creating is a whole lot of compromises. Not any that Lucas is aware of, but it feels as though every time they meet up to hang out with him, Asher is making another compromise in his head. Okay, they’ll run around the MET with Lucas and try to touch as many things as they can that say “do not touch”—well, Lucas and Dylan will, and Asher won’t tell on them because he’s a good friend and he doesn’t want them to get in trouble. And it’s harmless, anyway, so the worst that could happen is they get removed from the museum. He can’t think about the implications on the art or what centuries old tapestry might be suffering because of their shenanigans or else he gets a rash on his forearms, so he reminds himself its a compromise. It’s a compromise, and if he really needs to feel guilty about it he can cry in the shower when he gets home and no one ever has to know. Lucas can have his fun with some supervision, Dylan can make Lucas happy by going along with it and not having to worry about him, and Asher can have peace of mind Lucas didn’t do anything worse in their absence even if he had to trade in a tiny piece of his guilt-complex-laced sanity for it.

Compromise.

But his guilty conscience always has a way of turning the tables, and when Asher finds himself relieved when Lucas cancels on them one afternoon in late June it suddenly finds its new target to seize. Because the fact of the matter is Asher _does _find hanging out with Lucas draining, but admitting that feels like betraying him. He can’t seriously be thinking about how nice it is to have a break from him when he knows what Lucas needs more than anything right now is support. But then he has to wonder if he’s being fair to himself, giving up so much of his own comfort just to appease Lucas’s latest stupid idea, and why should he be spending so much time worrying about Lucas when he clearly hasn’t given a fraction of a thought towards him or his feelings? But then that’s not fair to Lucas, who is definitely going through what might be the toughest period of his life right now, so of course he’s not inherently thinking about Asher’s feelings. It’d be impressive if he was really thinking at all. So where does he get off being so high and mighty when what he should be doing is making sure their efforts are actually helping Lucas, and then make sure they’re not going to be caught on some street camera and put all three of them in prison at the ripe age of sixteen?

Asher hates summer. Too much free time, too damn hot outside, too persistent rash on his forearms.

He supposes that’s why he enjoys working on his summer reading list so much. It gives him a greatly needed distraction, an excuse to mentally check out from the spiral session he has to endure every night when he goes to sleep and there’s nothing left to face but his thoughts. In spite of how unpleasantly warm it is, Asher finds himself requesting Dylan come sneak in the window to stay the night more often than not. Sharing the bed with another person is uncomfortable when it’s so sweaty, but at least when Dylan is there he feels like he can actually rest.

If Dylan wasn’t there, he has to wonder if he would get any sleep at all.

Of course, things can only get weirder. It’s practically a rule at this point in the summer, that things can only get more twisted before they show any signs of improving. And that’s exactly what happens as they slip into the sixth week, Lucas going off the grid again and the heat index cracking the hundreds.

As Asher attempts to get lost in his reread of _Aristotle and Dante_, he can’t help but think his life would be terrible as a fictionalized narrative. Ari’s thoughts, while confusing for him, are concise and easy to follow. If someone tried to put his anxious brain into comprehensible prose, he can’t imagine that it would make for a very enjoyable read.

“It’s hot,” Dylan complains.

It’s not the first time he’s stated the obvious in the last couple hours. As if Asher needs the reminder. He’s already wearing his lightest cotton shirt, and it’s still sticking to him like glue. Dylan has forgone his entirely, shirtless as he reclines against Asher’s legs and flips through the latest _Spiderman _comic.

Not that Asher minds the view, but he has to admit he’s grateful they’re hanging out at Dylan’s rather than his place. The two of them have been dating for almost two years and it’s not like much of what they might or might not be doing is a big secret with their families, but he still feels sort of shy about even the slightest implications around his parents. He doesn’t know what that says about him psychologically, but considering everything else he has to stress over he doesn’t think it’s worth much of his time to unpack it.

Besides, even the thought of kissing or anything else feels like a chore when he’s already melting. Another reason summer unequivocally sucks. “I know.”

“I know you know.”

“Well, thanks for telling me again, then.”

“You’re welcome,” Dylan says, taking a pointed munch of his Flavor Ice. It’s grape today, undoubtedly leaving his tongue an unnatural shade of purple.

The frequency between each declaration of the heat is growing, so Asher gets the feeling any productive reading time he’s managed to gather for the day is drawing to a close. He drops the novel face down on his stomach, tilting his head back against the wall. At least the plaster is cool. “You know, by continuously bringing it up, you’re only making us think about it more. The more we think about it, the hotter it’s going to feel.”

“What else am I supposed to think about?”

“The comic you’re supposedly reading,” Asher suggests. He reaches forward and brushes his fingers through Dylan’s hair, absentmindedly fixing some of the tangles. “What you want to do later this week. The summer homework you still haven’t started…”

“Can’t… think…” Dylan lets out a strangled noise, as if he’s being suffocated. “Brain… failing… from heat exhaustion—,”

He finishes the theatrics with one final cough, going limp against the mattress and letting the comic book fall to the floor with a flourish. Asher gives it a couple of seconds before breaking into sarcastic applause, Dylan rousing back to life with a proud beam.

“Bravo. You’re so talented, I really believed it for a second there. It’s amazing you’re not a performer.”

“I know, I know. Maya is so lucky she doesn’t have to compete with me.”

Their lazy conversation is interrupted by a buzzing from the bedside table, Asher’s phone lighting up with a text message. He hates the way his stomach twists with dread that it might be Lucas—and then he hates himself for thinking that.

Dylan is clearly thinking the same, although he likely doesn’t have the same internal war going on as he asks about it. “Is it Lucas? Tell him I get to pick the plan for today. I want him to stuff me into one of the coolers at Walgreens.”

“You wouldn’t fit,” Asher says matter-of-factly, stretching to grab his phone.

“Not with that attitude. I think if enough of those frozen pre-made meals made a little room, I could squeeze in. And at least I’d be cool.” He grabs the hand that Asher is waving offhandedly at him, pressing a kiss to his palm and playing with his fingers. “Can’t you imagine it? Sweet, sweet relief. I bless the coolers down in Walgreens on Astor Place.”

Asher doesn’t catch the rest of his sentence, because his brain freezes up when he sees who the message is from. He blinks to make sure he read it correctly, a new distraction falling into his lap and bringing with it a whole new can of worms.

“So? Is he down?”

“It’s not Lucas,” Asher says blankly. “It’s Riley.”

Dylan perks up, obviously thinking he misheard him. When it’s clear he did not he climbs to his knees, Asher pushing himself upright as Dylan collapses down next to him and props his chin on his shoulder to read along with him.

Riley didn’t give them much room for confusion. Her message is concise but clear, the kind where she evidently put a lot of thought into it before sending. She wishes him a good summer before wondering if he would be willing to meet up for coffee or lunch, explaining that she just wants to ask some questions. And, of course, Dylan is invited too.

Asher wonders if he’s correctly reading desperation from her text, or if he’s projecting something going on in his own head onto her. Considering the three of them were never exactly friends—they both liked her, of course, but they didn’t really get to know one another—he has the feeling this has nothing to do with them and absolutely everything to do with Lucas.

It’s been over a month since the end of the year, and Lucas still hasn’t said a word about Riley. He’s essentially pretending she doesn’t exist, and if he’s acting that way around them then it’s more than likely she’s getting even less from him.

Dylan whistles, tilting his head to look at him. “What do we do?”

“I… I don’t know,” Asher admits. He climbs off the bed and settles into pacing, turning his phone over in his fingers. “I mean, I can assume why she reached out. She wants to know about Lucas.”

“Maybe she just wanted to hang out with us.”

“She said she had questions. Why would she have questions about us?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Dylan shrugs. “We’re interesting people.”

“And if she does want to talk about Lucas, then what are we supposed to do? I can’t just ignore her, that would be rude.”

“Yeah.”

“But is it our place to talk about him? Sure, we’re the people who have seen him the most, but I think that’s intentional on Lucas’s part. And what would we even say if we did meet with her?” Asher presses the heel of his palm to his forehead, screwing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath. “Yeah, no Lucas is great? He’s just having a quarter-life crisis and encouraging us to steal from the Grand Central market every time we hang out? I’m sure that’ll feel really reassuring.”

“Well, to be fair, that was only once,” Dylan argues.

“Oh, yeah, my bad. I just figured we didn’t need to bring an alphabetized list of all the places we’ve terrorized in the last five weeks!”

Dylan frowns. Asher tosses the phone onto the bed and out of his hands, hiding behind them and taking shallow breaths. Considering how the panic in his shoulder blades is compounding, he thinks the answer is obvious.

“No. No, we can’t do this. Lucas would kill us if he found out, and I don’t think it’s going to make anyone feel better. So we’re not going. I’ll just make something up.” He takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Problem solved. Okay. Crisis averted.”

Then he exhales, letting his hands flop to his sides and leaving the matter settled. That is until he opens his eyes, spotting the uncertain expression on his boyfriend’s face as he watches him from the bed.

If Dylan Orlando, the most agreeable person on planet Earth, looks unconvinced, then Asher knows the matter is far from settled. And likely for very good reason.

“What? Don’t look at me like that.” At this Dylan simply turns his head in a different direction, and even in spite of all his anxiety Asher can’t help but laugh a little. Dylan’s natural ability to make even the darkest situations have humor is one of his favorite things about him. “What?”

Essentially granted permission to look at him again, Dylan locks eyes with him and hesitates. When he speaks again, his voice is soft.

“I think we should meet with Riley.”

Asher’s turn to frown. “Why? Lucas is going to hate us.”

“Lucas won’t know.” Dylan raises his eyebrows. “Who’s going to tell him, Riley? Unlikely.”

“Yeah, but—” He stammers, searching for the logical fallacy that will get him out of this situation. “But what about—what are we going to say, Dyl? What are we supposed to tell her?”

“The truth. Whatever she wants to know. If she’s desperate enough to text us, then I think it’s the least we can do.”

Asher lets out a sigh, examining him carefully. For how radiant and carefree he often is, Asher is always surprised by how _calm _Dylan can be. Particularly in moments like these, where the decisions feel impossible and the walls feel like they’re closing in. It’s like the more pressure there is, the more resolute he becomes. His features grow soft, his voice stays even. He can look him in the eyes and speak with absolute certainty that everything is going to be okay.

And given how sincere Dylan has always been, it’s surprisingly easy to believe him.

“Why?” He’s close to caving, but he wants the full understanding of what’s making his boyfriend’s brain tick before he makes any final calls. “Why do you think we should do it?”

Dylan shrugs, taking a moment to search for the answer. He operates on gut instinct far more than Asher, so it usually requires additional thought to figure out what’s motivating his feelings in any given scenario.

“Because I know if it were me, I’d hate to be where she is. Like, if something happened, and it was you who suddenly ghosted with no explanation and the likelihood and track record to do something stupid, I’d be going nuts.”

Asher hadn’t thought about it that way. Leave it to Dylan to see it from the empathetic angle, though. That doesn’t surprise him at all.

And the point is a good one. Asher tries to imagine what it would be like, getting caught up in someone else’s mistake and having to endure the consequences anyway. If he messed up with Dylan and instead of giving him closure he just disappeared out of his life, the worry would be all-consuming. He doesn’t get enough sleep as it is—if Dylan weren’t there and potentially would never come back, he isn’t sure he’d ever sleep again.

“Not knowing is the worst part. When you don’t have any clue what’s going on, so your mind does whatever it wants to fill in the blanks. And usually it picks the worst possibilities—you should know that better than anybody.” Dylan crawls off the bed and comes to stand in front of him, taking his hands. “So we’ll give Riley some answers. Even if it’s not what she wants to hear, at least it’s something. At least she can have peace of mind for the rest of the summer that Lucas isn’t dying or blowing himself up.”

With how things are going, Asher wouldn’t consider that guaranteed. But he knows Dylan is right. He nods, offering a tight smile in spite of the tension in his shoulders. Dylan pulls him closer, nudging his forehead against his and giving him a kiss that tastes like grape.

Although he hates summer, Asher decides it would be worse if he were alone. At least, humidity and petty crime and sleepless nights aside, he gets to share it with Dylan Orlando.


	7. persistent parties, part ii ( riley )

Riley has always liked Svorski’s coffee, but sitting around that Saturday afternoon in early July feels unbearable.

She knows its not the fault of the establishment by any means. The shop is as pleasant and cozy as always, the aroma of coffee beans and fresh pastry strong and the air conditioning a refuge from the record-breaking humidity. Her usual spot in the back corner is open for her to claim. She likes it the most because its near this delightful painting of an oceanside town, a little speckled tabby cat watching the boats drift into the harbor from a sunlit windowsill. She’s never considered herself much of a beach person, but there’s a solidarity she feels with that picturesque feline that she can’t put into words.

What she wouldn’t give, she muses, so be a cat lazing away the days and watching boats find their way home.

But today, even the landscape isn’t enough to assuage her nerves. She’s tapping her fingers against the table top, torn between eyeing the front entrance and keeping her gaze directed anywhere else as she waits for her company to join her. Asking people she doesn’t normally hang out with to meet her is nerve-racking enough—doing so due to desperate circumstances and knowing full well they probably don’t want to be meeting with her makes the sensation a thousand times worse. Although she believes both of them to be kind-hearted people, she can’t fight the fear that they might not show up at all.

Then again, it’s on her for showing up so early. She didn’t want to let them show up first and end up looking disrespectful, so she finds herself grabbing her hot vanilla and settling into her chair about forty-five minutes before they agreed to meet up. Every time the small bell above the door chimes and she’s not already staring at the front, adrenaline shoots through her veins before another dose of disappointment and relief takes over when it’s not who she’s expecting.

It feels as though they’re taking their sweet time, but there’s still ten minutes left before they would even be considered late. Riley hums in lieu of the scream she’d like to let loose, hiding her head behind her hands and digging her palms into her eyes.

Another jingle. This time, she debates not bothering to lift her gaze, only doing so when she knows she’ll regret it if it is them and she ends up embarrassing herself looking so broken without any way to cover for it.

And she does so just in time. She looks to the doorway just as Asher and Dylan are stepping inside from the glaring sunshine, the latter spotting her and offering a nod and a smile bright enough to compete with the sun. He elbows Asher and leans down to whisper something, nodding in her direction as they both squint in her direction.

Riley actively convinces herself not to make a run for it. She was the one who asked them to come, so she’s not going to play poor hostess.

All things considered, she wishes they were meeting under better circumstances. She’s always greatly admired both of them—Asher for his obvious creativity and kind nature, Dylan for his sense of humor and unabashedly friendly demeanor—and she can imagine a thousand different ways this sit down could’ve come to be. If she were smart, she would’ve simply tried to befriend them more seriously last year rather than defaulting to shyness and letting the connection of Isadora and Lucas be good enough.

Too late now. As this summer has proven well enough, once choices have been made they’re impossible to take back. So she has to start from the drawing board.

That being said, it’s a small relief when the two of them don’t seem intent on making this rendezvous antagonistic. Both of them greet her politely enough as she climbs up from her chair to meet them. While Asher manages a smile and mostly focuses on orienting where they’re sitting, Dylan’s grin is far from fake as he comes to join her.

It’s even more unexpected when he pulls her into a light hug, the gesture seemingly as natural as breathing. As if they’re good friends, not two disparate entities whose only connecting thread has thinned so thoroughly it’s bound to snap at any moment.

“It’s so good to see you,” he chirps, still smiling when he pulls back. He shifts focus for a moment to make sure Asher is settling alright, pulling out his chair for him and sliding into the other one across from where Riley was perched earlier. “How has your summer been?”

Riley is still stunned from the contact, suddenly realizing just how isolating this summer has been. But she shakes herself out of it, plastering a smile on her face as she slides back into her booth. It would be keen if she could get through one conversation without breaking to pieces or losing her mind.

“Oh, you know, it’s… fine,” she says vaguely, hoping her smile does a convincing enough job.She clasps her hands together on the table top. “Lots of little trips with the family, stuff like that. Nothing major. How about you guys?”

She notices the way Asher keeps his gaze anywhere but on her. Currently it’s on Dylan, listening attentively as he picks up the brunt of the conversation. She supposes it’s a good thing she specifically mentioned he was invited too, but it’s just as likely he would’ve shown up anyway. Especially if Asher is evidently so uncomfortable he can’t even breathe in her direction.

“It’s been whatever. Like, fun because freedom and all that, but it’s nothing special. To be honest, the school year is way more interesting than summer when you go to a school like Triple A. Not to mention it’s so _yucky_ out. Literally earlier this week, I almost died of heat exhaustion. Didn’t I, Ash?”

Asher seems a bit unprepared to be addressed. He blinks. “Uh, yeah. Well, not really—,”

“Really,” Dylan reiterates.

It’s a shock to recognize how rusty she is at socializing. The weeks haven’t felt that long, but she supposes it has been some time since she substantially interacted with anybody outside of her family. Crazy how she went to a completely different school after the same sort of thing unfolded freshman year, and yet here she is back at square one. New summer, same story.

Suffice to say, the superhuman speed at which Dylan chatters is an adjustment. She only comprehends about half of what he says in the next minute or so. When he finally pauses for breath and changes tracks, it’s like getting thirty seconds in the pit stop before they’re veering off again.

“We should get coffee. Or you know, something.” He nods to the small paper bag and half-finished cup in front of her. “What’d you get?”

Riley hesitates, trying to get her brain to work. She’s glad Dylan reminded her of the pastry. “Oh, actually, I got this for you guys. Just as a thank you for coming.”

Asher’s eyebrows shoot up as she slides the sleeve across the table towards them, Dylan taking it eagerly. He pulls the raspberry scone from it, humming appreciatively. His eyes are twinkling as he lets it settle back on the paper bag.

“Scones. You know, I’ve never been able to make a good scone. It’s not that they’re not good, they are, I just think there’s something about their texture or something that I can’t quite get right.” As Dylan goes on filling the silence, Riley catches the way Asher’s expression softens and his tight smile eases into something more natural. “Like I’ve made probably every cookie in the universal cookbook at least once, but scones, man. I don’t know. And what’d you get to drink?”

Again, the conversation is thrown back at her before she knows it. She shrugs. “Just hot vanilla.”

“Hot vanilla. Is that like hot chocolate… but…”

“Vanilla,” Riley fills in. The discussion is so inane, but she can’t help but giggle. Somehow, it’s helping her relax. “Yeah. It’s exactly what it sounds like.”

“Ooh, I gotta try that.” Dylan looks to Asher, leaning in conspiratorially and speaking softer than before. “I gotta try that. I’m gonna get that.” He lightly touches his boyfriend’s wrist where his hands are locked together against the edge of the table. “You want something? Peach lemonade?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Whatever works,” Asher murmurs. “Just—,”

“Decaf,” Dylan fills in promptly, as if it’s not even a question. He smiles. “I know.” Then, back to Riley again, all jokes. “He’s got enough jitters.”

He pushes up from his seat, leaning over to give Asher a quick peck on the cheek before he embarks. Although Riley had spent an entire year watching them from afar and is no stranger to what a decent couple the two of them make, it’s a lot more impactful to see it so up close and personal. Everything between them is settled, easy, just part of the way they operate rather than a big display or a conscious overwrought effort. It feels rare to see, and distinctly humbling.

Admittedly, though she’s ashamed of it, Riley feels a sting of jealousy too.

Silence settles around them save for the clatter and ambience of the other patrons in the cafe, Asher keeping his eyes trained in the direction Dylan left for as long as possible. She can’t help but feel guilty, putting him in this situation where he’s clearly so anxious. Lucas once told her Asher is always anxious, but she’s seen the way he acts around his friends and in class, and it’s far more animated than he’s functioning now.

But she can’t blame him. She shares a similar sense of dread, the true reason she invited him to chat pointedly clear between them even if it remains unspoken.

Eventually, his need to be polite wins out over his desire to avoid her. He shifts his eyes to her and offers another timid smile, quickly dropping his gaze down to his hands.

It’s easy to forget, but watching him right now, Riley remembers the fact that he’s actually a year younger than most of them. He carries himself with such poise and maturity, it’s all too simple to paint him as older and wiser than he is in her head.

But he’s just a kid. Not even sixteen—as if that’s the magic number for making any of this feel okay. They’re all just starting to figure things out, and yet everything feels like it’s spiraling towards an end.

She doesn’t want to focus on that right now. She can’t. So she aims for what teenagers like them should be talking about. “And your summer?”

Asher glances at her, averting his gaze again and clearing his throat. He lets out a stiff sound that might be supposed to be a laugh.

“Probably about the same as yours,” he says softly, meeting her eyes.

She doesn’t know if she’s reading into things, or if they’re truly on the precipice of the subject she can’t seem to bring up. He’s the whole reason she was desperate enough to ask them to meet with her in the first place, but now that his closest reachable confidantes are here in front of her she finds herself unable to speak.

Regardless, it doesn’t sound like good news if Asher is equating his experience to hers. Her summer has been undeniably bleak, and if actually spending time with Lucas has felt the same way then she isn’t sure she’s ready to hear anything else. Maybe arranging this conversation was a big mistake.

Still, she knows if she _doesn’t _ask, it’ll drive her insane.

“I didn’t mean to pressure you into this,” she blurts. It’s hard to look at his uncertain expression, so she directs her gaze to the oceanside painting and gets lost in it as she talks instead. “I know this has to be so uncomfortable for you, and I’m sorry about that. You have no idea how much I appreciate you coming anyway.”

“Well, Dylan pointed out it wouldn’t exactly be fun to be in your position. Given everything that’s… happened.”

She’s grateful for that careful word choice. Farkle’s video does sort of feel like a happening, some natural disaster she had absolutely no control over but still hurricaned through her life anyway and left everything in ruins. She’s still trying to clear the rubble of it, nowhere close to figuring out how to rebuild.

Riley nods along. “I mean, I don’t want you to feel bad for me or anything. Save the sympathy for people who actually deserve it.”

Asher doesn’t look convinced. She supposes maybe it’s a good thing they haven’t spent much time together before—if he already can see right through her, then she doesn’t want to know how much of her precarious facade he could pick apart with more time.

“I just…” The words get caught in her throat, holding her back from asking what she really wants to know. She practically has to choke them out, hating the way her voice cracks. “Is he okay? I saw the way he was at school, and I just can’t imagine…”

That’s a lie, of course. She’s imagined it plenty—how humiliated Lucas must’ve been, how betrayed he must’ve felt. She knows well enough that getting him to accompany her to the gala by choice was a feat, and the effort he put into the ordeal was a fragile form of sincerity. The kind of vulnerability he doesn’t let himself demonstrate in the light of day, because there are far too many people around who can and would grab hold of it and shatter it. He put that trust in her, that venturing into new territory would be safe so long as it was with her.

And although she never intended for that trust to get broken, somehow it still did. Because everything falls apart eventually, just like her parents and her second school in two years and the belief that the universe has to have some sort of order. That it can’t just all be meaningless chaos, regardless of the scientific theories that exist to shatter it.

From the hesitant expression on Asher’s face, she already knows the answer. He may as well not answer at all—his eyes speak enough for him. Still, he finds something to offer her that doesn’t feel like total defeat.

“He’s still going.”

Riley is struck by the bittersweetness of the statement. It’s not a reassurance, as Asher isn’t telling her that everything is going to be okay. That Lucas is fine and there’s nothing to worry about. But it’s not giving up either, in spite of how cruel things have been. He still believes that Lucas will pull through, or at least has hope that he can.

Even if things feel completely out of whack, perhaps putting one foot in front of the other is still progress. It’s something, and that’s better than nothing.

Dylan returns, handing Asher his drink as he slides back into his seat. He lets his gaze flit between the two of them, quickly getting a read on where the conversation has settled without bothering to ask outright. She’s heard plenty of her performer classmates write the goofy technician off as brainless, but with how swiftly he adjusts to the mood she has to wonder if his intelligence is just in a different realm than book smarts and witty retorts.

If that’s the case, Riley finds herself curious to know his take. “Could I ask you both something?”

Dylan raises his eyebrows, tilting his head at his boyfriend before giving an affirmation. Asher nods, shrugging. “Sure.”

“The video that Farkle made. What he said about me, and… do you think it’s true?” She looks back and forth between them, trying to gauge their thoughtful expressions before she’s even finished the query. “Do you believe I was leading Lucas on?”

Asher takes a sip of his lemonade, making a face that’s only a few subtle steps away from a cringe. “I don’t know if it’s our place to say—,”

“I’m not going to try and convince you either way,” Riley clarifies. She knows the effort would be useless, and they’re not the ones she’d want to be arguing the point with anyway. There’s only one person she wants to promise it isn’t true, and he hasn’t acknowledged her existence or any of her attempts to reach out since the final Monday of term. “I just want to know. Full disclosure.”

Dylan and Asher lock eyes, sharing a whole conversation in the seconds that they hold each other’s gaze with absolutely no words at all. Asher shifts his inquisitive look to her, lacking the brand intensity of their other fellow classmates with whom such a moment of inspection would feel scrutinizing.

Then, he shakes his head. “No.”

“Not for a second,” Dylan declares, the statement feeling even more serious considering it’s not paired with one of his usual high wattage grins.

Riley knows this doesn’t mean anything. Their opinions aren’t the ones that truly matter in this regard, and certainly don’t change the status of the situation. But relief floods her anyway, loosening up some of the tension in her neck and allowing her to actually exhale. It’s bittersweet just like the non-reassurance, hopeful even though there’s no room for optimism in the hottest summer to hit Manhattan in years.

Given that it’s objectively good news, she has no idea why she suddenly feels teary. There’s a lump in her throat as she tries to think of what she wants to say next, knowing that she doesn’t have them in her grasp forever. And once they part ways and disappear back into the concrete jungle, she has no idea if she’ll ever get the chance to speak like this with them again.

“Um, you guys will—,” she starts, hating how thick her voice comes out. She clears her throat, willing her eyes to stop watering.

Crying is not an option. Crying in front of Lucas’s two most loyal lieutenants and a crowd full of coffee-drinkers on a Saturday afternoon is forbidden.

Dylan glances to Asher again, obviously concerned. She works harder to pull it together, before the embarrassment makes it worse.

“You guys will watch out for him, right?” She screws her eyes shut, shaking her head at how stupid she sounds. “I mean, of course you will. You’re his friends. I just mean… you’ll make sure he’s…”

She freezes when Asher’s fingertips brush the back of her hand. She opens her eyes, tentatively meeting his across the table.

His features are soft with understanding. “Yeah.”

Dylan nods, smiling lightly. “No matter what.”

Riley tries to let this be good enough. She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to mirror Dylan’s smile and nodding in agreement. The exhale she releases is shaky, but she’s still breathing.

She’s still going. So is Lucas. Maybe, at the end of the day, that’s all they can ask of one another.

Dylan reclines back in his chair, taking a sip of his hot vanilla. His eyes widen after a moment, then he sits up straighter and sets the cup back down on the table with a flourish.

“Hot diggity,” he says fiercely, eyes alight with wonder. “That is fucking delicious.”

Riley can’t help but laugh. And once she’s started she can’t stop, overcome with giggles in her emotional exhaustion that feel downright liberating. They must be contagious too, because it’s not long before Asher is chuckling. And it’s no secret how easy it is to get Dylan to crack up.

There, six weeks into the season in her favorite spot at Svorski’s with two boys who aren’t quite friends, as laughter floats through them like boats in the harbor, it finally starts to feel like summer.


	8. the haze ( lucas )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warning:** mild suicidal ideation, and brief description of broken bones.

The truth is, Lucas can’t tell you what he did this summer.

Not because he’s ashamed, to be clear. He would need shame to feel ashamed, and unfortunately he’s all out of that. It’s more because he genuinely can’t remember, the entire scorching season passing in an incomprehensible blur in his mind. The days seem to slip through his fingers like oil, leaving nothing behind but an unpleasant greasy feeling and the ability to catch fire if someone cared enough to light a match.

Sometimes, he tries to put the pieces back together in a way that makes sense. He can remember the first week of summer pretty clearly, and that’s not for lack of trying to forget it. Lots of hiding in his stupid room, hoping if he’s quiet enough or still enough he’ll evaporate. If he evaporated, then at least the sting of being humiliated in front of the class full of people who hate him would evaporate too. Instead it lingers, constantly pecking at the back of his mind and consuming him in the moments where he thinks it would be better to get some rest or stop existing entirely.

Isadora checks on him a lot that first week. He can’t remember if she did it naturally or if he asked for her to do it, but she does it either way. Sometimes she’ll bring him stuff, like food from one of their usual spots or books she’s always trying to get him to read. It would make for a good distraction, but he can’t get his brain to work well enough to absorb anything.

Sometimes, she attempts to get him to go outside and escape his own head. Just go for a walk, get some fresh air, do anything other than stay cramped in the room she’s fully aware he hates. But facing the real world feels more daunting than fighting with himself, so she never wins the argument. At best, she’ll get him to sit out on his fire escape rather than in the dark so he’s at least getting fresh air and sunlight. It’s disgustingly hot outside, but at least it’s refreshing.

Usually, they don’t talk. There’s nothing to say, and Lucas doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth anyway. The way he fell apart in the booth was unprecedented, and he hasn’t figured out how to sew those seams back together yet so they’ll hold. If he tries to speak, his throat gets all scratchy and starts to hurt and he can _feel _the walls crumbling again. So he sticks to not speaking at all, and Isadora doesn’t force him. She simply brings a book or her sketchbook and does her own thing, just giving him the reprieve of not having to exist alone.

If a tear or two does escape him in the time that she’s present, she never comments on it. He’s grateful for that, because he’s not sure he’d survive the embarrassment otherwise.

The worst parts of the first week are the nights. Because at night there’s nothing to distract him from replaying everything over and over again—how stupid he was, how pathetic the whole situation is, how he got his hopes up when he knew he shouldn’t and so in some ways he deserves the humiliation. He’s always been a disappointment, and being so blatantly reminded of that makes him sick and sends the walls tumbling down faster than he can stop them.

When he gets into a state like that, he has to go in the closet. He seals himself inside and pushes his way through the piled high junk and ducks into the corner he carved out for himself amongst all the other discarded, useless stuff everyone forgot about. Because during the summer Kenneth is home more often than not, and the last thing he needs is for his dad to hear him crying like an idiot over something so stupid. Crying has never been a welcome response in this family.

Frustrating how though much of the summer seems to be a gaping hole in his brain, he can remember those nights crystal clear.

It’s an overwhelming relief when the humiliation simmers long enough to turn the hurt into anger. It usually doesn’t take so long, and it feels good to be back in a state of mind he can work with. Anger is familiar—anger can be action. So when Kenneth leaves for a business trip to Austin and Grace goes to the flower shop for work, Lucas starts transforming that emotion into action.

He destroys everything he has from last year. Assignments, playbills, scraps of paper. He rips up most of them. Some of them he cuts up with his switchblade, even getting a little creative and trying to make shapes. Then he gets tired of it all and burns it instead, sitting out on his fire escape with his wastebasket in flames and letting the smoke float up into the already simmering June heat.

His only hesitation comes when he’s cleaning off his joke of a bed. He finds Riley’s shawl from the gala tucked over by the corner—the one she left behind that he promised he would return to her on Monday. It’s delicate in his fingers, designed for style rather than durability.

It would go up in flames in seconds. If he wanted, he could probably tear it apart with his bare hands. He wants to. God knows he should.

Instead, he throws it into the closet. Deep into the darkness where he won’t ever find it, hidden away in the space he never intends to have to crawl into again.

After the contents of his trash can have burned down to embers, Lucas starts looking for other ways to get back that sense of control. He’s never had it to begin with, but by doing certain things it’s almost as if he can trick himself into feeling like he does. And when he looks in the mirror as he’s digging around in the bathroom, something about the image just makes him sick. Like it’s not even a person he’s looking at on the other side. No one he recognizes, anyway, nor would he want to know it.

So he finds himself with a pair a scissors in minutes, cutting the hair he stupidly spent trying to make look nice for a night that doesn’t even matter anymore.

It’s a disaster, but at least it feels more representative of what he is. It feels liberating. Only it seems others disagree, Asher throwing a fit until he lets him buzz it back into something salvageable when he invites him and Dylan back into his sphere of influence.

And boy, is it nice to have them back. He can distract himself to the best of his ability and cut himself to pieces, but he can only do so much alone.

He starts coming up with ways to get a rush that feels like fun, little games of who can swipe what and how much rule-breaking you can get away with before the universe hits back, and those are only effective in company willing to play along. Considering how much they get away with, he’s only proving his theory that so little in this world actually means anything. That nothing actually matters.

Even still, he can tell he’s pushing boundaries in other ways that might have consequences. Asher is really good at faking a smile, but he’s been friends with him long enough to recognize when he’s covering for anxiety. Lucas doesn’t know what he wants him to do—if he appreciates him putting aside his own comfort to make him feel better, or if he kind of hates him for it. If he _wants _him to lash out at him, to call him on his bullshit and yell at him the way he did with his bad haircut so at least things feel like they’re normal. As close to normal as they’ve ever been. So people stop treating him like he’s made of glass.

Guilt over making his best friend compromise his own beliefs to appease him becomes just another thing keeping him awake at night. And while he appreciates Asher and Dylan’s company more than either of them will ever know—because he knows Isadora would never humor his behavior, even if that’s maybe exactly what he needs—he can’t put them through that every time he feels like exploding. Because then one or both of them might wise up and realize they could do better—like Riley, and Isadora, and everybody else. They might finally be free of him.

He has to wonder, in all honesty, if that would be such a bad thing.

When he’s feeling particularly dangerous, Lucas knows he has to get away. He packs up his backpack with essentials and a water bottle and his toothbrush and climbs down the fire escape, descending onto the New York streets and just going. No sense of direction, no defined destination in mind, just going for the sake of going. As far as away as he feels bold enough to go, more and more each time he disappears. One day, all the way to the North end of the island and back. Three days, out of the city and into Brooklyn. Longer and further every time, giving plenty of space between him and everyone else just in case he finally detonates.

Every time he survives another pilgrimage and returns back to the East Village, he’s always surprised by how nothing changes. He floats in and out of the world of Manhattan like the wind, and no one even notices he’s gone.

* * *

On the days where moving forward feels like too much, he goes upward instead. What starts as a reckless and hasty climb up the back end of a 7-11 to avoid getting caught swiping snacks becomes an exposure to an entirely new world, seeing the horizon of the city from miles above everyone else.

So he climbs. Fire escapes, window sills, free-climbing his way across the rooftops of Manhattan.

For a while, this actually manages to provide some relief to whatever insatiable buzz has taken over his brain. The thrill of risking life and limb to reach the top seems to quench whatever thirst for chaos he’s developed, and the view from so high up causes a stillness in him he can’t explain. Perhaps it’s the for the same reason he prefers to be in the booth rather than anywhere else at Adams—he gets the full scenery, but no one knows he’s there. It’s like existing in the most compelling setting without having to exist at all.

Even after the adrenaline wears off, he’ll spend hours up there staring at the landscape. The higher he can get, the better the view. Cloudless blue skies or sudden downpour; catching a sunrise or drifting off in exhaustion as the sun sets. Time is as blurry as his memory, everything concrete lost to the summer haze.

But his temporary treatment for his unstable state was never built to last. All the taunting he’s done throughout the break, it’s no surprise when the universe finally decides to hit him back. It comes in the form a misplaced foothold, halfway up one of his usual climbs on a rainy late night, sending him cascading into a free fall.

For a second, as he loses his grip and any limited control he had, he finds himself wondering if he’s going to die. Realizing it’s a very real possibility, hurtling towards the ground and uncertain where he’ll land in the darkness of the midnight hour and whole world looking like glitter in the damp aftermath of a summer drizzle.

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to feel at that prospect, but he’s certain that his response wasn’t the correct one.

Not that it matters, since he survives. He lands in the wet assemblage of an open dumpster, sharp objects digging into his flesh and his wrist snapping against the side of the metal as he breaks his fall.

It’s no surprise that he had to hit a limit eventually, but God, does it _hurt_. It’s been ages since he’s ever felt anything like it, pain erupting from his left wrist so harshly he doesn’t think he could scream loud enough to overpower it. He curses, voice cracking on each repeated cuss as he attempts to pull himself from the garbage.

All he can think about is the pain. For the whole walk home everything else ceases to exist, nothing but the agony throbbing in his skull and each of his muscles as he cradles his wrist and stumbles his way back across the island. His face is stained with tears by the time he makes it back to his street, but he’s soaked from the rain anyway so it hardly matters.

It’s a small relief to come home and find Kenneth’s keys off the rack. It allows him to be as careless as he wants, not bothering to be quiet as he scrambles to the bathroom and desperately searches the cabinets for something to fix the problem. Anything.

The offerings are a handful of painkillers and an old ACE bandage. He downs the pills dry, grimacing as he forces himself to swallow so he can escape the public space as soon as possible. Then he stumbles his way back into the familiar darkness of his room, locking his door and pushing his window shut with his working hand.

Once again, he’s back in the closet as he painstakingly binds his wrist. He doesn’t want to wake Grace, because he knows she won’t have any idea what to do about it either and he knows they definitely can’t afford a trip to the emergency room. The last thing he needs is for Kenneth to see that on their monthly statement, and he’s not going to let her pay for it.

There’s no way to go about the endeavor silently, however. His cheeks are hot with tears as he sets his wrist into place, trying to keep his outbursts to a minimum. It’s his fault this happened anyway, so he doesn’t exactly have the right to be worked up about it. The painkillers will kick in eventually, and once he tightens the wrap around his wrist into something close to a splint he figures it’ll heal eventually.

Even so, he’s still crying. Once he started it’s like he can’t stop, like weeks worth of things he’s been working so hard to ignore are taking the opportunity to seize him all at once. And he can’t leave that crawl space until he’s ready to be quiet, so he has no idea how many hours he spends hidden away in the dark. Fighting the shooting pain in his hand, so overwhelmed with everything else that he can’t even pick it apart, planning not to ever tell anyone about it—if he could even identify anyone who would listen or care.

Somewhere in the midst of the meltdown, he stumbles upon the shawl. Because of course he does, the universe getting another kick in when he’s already down. Reminding him of how royally he’s already fucked things up, reminding him of the last time he was weak when he should’ve just ripped the thing to shreds along with everything else.

Somehow, the shawl survives another night. It makes it through just like him, pressed tightly against his chest by the arm that isn’t injured as he finally dozes off from sheer exhaustion.

Just another survivor of the haze, part of the foggy tapestry in his head that is bound to go down in flames.


	9. the beach ( isadora )

If you had asked Isadora what her summer plans involved back before the end of the world, she never would’ve considered the possibility of hanging out with Maya Hart. And even more than that, never would she ever willingly spend an entire day with basically half the performer class.

That’s not how Maya pitched it to her at first. At first, it just seemed like another unexpected summer adventure between two unlikely allies. _Let’s go to the beach, _Maya said, at the tail end of their latest hangout. _It’ll be fun. An actual change of pace, and for like zero dollars. Do you know how hard it is to find free fun these days?_

Isadora certainly knows. That’s one thing that bonds the two of them, she realizes, when she’s lying awake trying to puzzle together how things ended up this way. How she’s done more socializing this summer than perhaps the last handful combined, how she became acquaintances—she still can’t bring herself to say _friends_—with the biggest diva to walk the halls of Triple A, that she always swore she would hate until the day she died.

Being poor. Yeah, she supposes that does form some pretty tight bonds.

Also, maybe she needs to amend her perspective on “socializing.” It’s not that she didn’t do anything during previous summer breaks, but hanging out with Lucas (and the rest of the techies, now and then) didn’t feel like socializing. Lucas drains her for plenty of reasons, but he’s never affected her the same way interacting with others does. They can spend hours together and it never feels like that much time, so summer days of wandering around Manhattan or taking air-conditioned recluse in her foster home flitted by without notice. It wasn’t exciting or particularly entertaining, but it was comfortable. It was the way of the world.

Isadora doesn’t know how she would tell him that she’s been hanging out with Maya. He might vomit, or go into shock. Fortunately, she doesn’t have to, as Lucas has essentially disappeared off the face of the Earth since she last saw him at the beginning of the summer.

She knows he’s not actually gone. Most of the time. She knows for a fact that he’s still out and about, traversing through the shadows of the city and keeping himself moving for the sake of moving. He’s simply changed his company, swapping out her quiet, discerning companionship for the unwavering yes men, Asher and Dylan.

Isadora texts to check on Lucas, but he stops answering. She texts Dylan next; she’s closer to him than Asher and more likely to get information out of him considering he loves to talk and doesn’t have the best filter. But even he is evasive, cheerful as he remains, assuring her that they’re not doing much when they get together. She’s not missing out, and she probably wouldn’t like what they do anyway. She’d be bored, or disinterested. Nothing to worry about.

Dylan doesn’t realize that his effusive claims that everything is fine are exactly what make Isadora certain that things aren’t good. But she doesn’t know how to get him to change his tune, or tell her what’s actually going on, so eventually she gives up on him too.

“Oh, whatever. Who cares? They’re boys,” Maya says, the one time Isadora risks criticism of her former best friends to complain about the situation when she just can’t take it anymore. “Whether Orlando is a liar or not, he’s probably right that whatever they’re doing is stupid. If they wanna make you feel like shit just to make themselves feel cool and elite, that’s on them. Besides, you’re having much more fun hanging out with me. Right?”

Isadora really doesn’t think Dylan’s aversion of the truth is self-serving, but she doesn’t have the energy to explain the nuances of the situation to her. Partially because there’s so many factors, personalities, and emotions involved, and Isadora isn’t sure what’s going on herself, but also because she knows trying to change Maya’s mind on Lucas, Dylan, and Asher is a lost cause. The performers have their perception of them locked down tight—especially Dylan and Asher, who Maya strangely seems to hate even more than Lucas—and Isadora’s biased defense of them isn’t going to make a dent in that iron-clad disdain.

Not only that, but she isn’t even sure what she would say at this point. She doesn’t really know what’s true about her friends and what isn’t these days.

Also, Isadora can’t act like she isn’t the same way about the performers. She’s never been interested in exploring her interpretation of her classmates on the other side of the auditorium. The unspoken tentative truce she built with Maya at the end of the year was surprising enough. The only reason that ever changes is because what started as an offhand summer idea quickly becomes a whole elaborate plan to go to the beach, and before she knows it their invite list grows exponentially.

It started with Zay. Maya figured they should invite Zay, because he’s been gone for a sizable chunk of the summer at the Kossal camp and ignoring Maya for the rest. She assures Isadora that it’s not personal, Zay just tries to deal with her as little as he can manage, but they’re still friends. Apparently. If they make it a group thing, he’ll be more likely to agree, and she’s dying to hear about the camp so it seems like a worthy maneuver.

“He’s been so weirdly busy this summer, like even after Kossal, but if he thinks he can get away with avoiding me the whole time he’s sorely mistaken. Plus, I think you two will get along. You know, outside the confines of Hell.”

Then Yindra gets added, and with Yindra comes Nigel. And another, and another, through the grapevine, until it feels like the entire A class is going.

“Wait, Clarissa is coming?” Isadora asks, unprepared when Maya mentions her over the phone.

“Oh, yeah. It’s a whole thing.” Maya sighs when Isadora clears her throat, indicating she sure would like to hear the explanation. “So basically, for whatever reason Zay thought it would be fun to invite Charlie. I know, I don’t get it either, but he’s coming at Zay’s insistence. So then Charlie asked if he could invite Haley and Clarissa, since he’s incapable of existing without his groupies, and it’s like, what was I gonna say? No?”

“I mean, knowing you, maybe.”

Isadora can imagine Maya’s eye roll. “The whole reason we came up with this thing was to get Zay to come. If—,”

“Well, actually, I thought we decided to go to the beach because you said it would be fun.”

“If I said no to Charlie’s request for Clarissa and Haley,” Maya continues, ignoring her comment, “then Charlie probably would get all weird and decide not to go. And that would make Zay pissed, and he’d probably ditch too, which would defeat the whole purpose of the outing. It’s all the diva game, Izzy, negotiating and placating egos. That’s how the world goes round.”

Explanation enough, but it still doesn’t make any sense. Even if she gets to know them, Isadora doesn’t think she’ll ever understand performers.

The other thing about Maya Hart is that she rarely listens to directions. Isadora doesn’t know how she plans to be a performer, needing to take instruction from directors and choreographers and managers, when she’s been her director in some capacity more than once since they met and she’s always been notoriously independent. She does what she wants, no alternate consideration spared, even in the moments when Isadora wishes she would.

Like, for example, showing up at her foster home. She’s just finishing tying her short sleeve flannel over her swimsuit and gathering her string bag when she hears the doorbell ring down below, signaling an unexpected guest. Or an expected one, for her, but one that was _supposed_ to wait outside and text when she got here. Isadora darts to the window and sees an unfamiliar minivan waiting on the street, likely occupied by her classmates.

The doorbell rings again. “God damn it, Maya Hart!”

Isadora trudges down the stairs just as her foster mother, Karen, pulls open the door. As suspected, Maya is standing on the doorstep, though she’s not facing them when she becomes visible. Instead she’s turned towards the van, a loud honk blaring through their usually quiet, prissy neighborhood.

“And you say _I’m _demanding? Hold your horses, bitches! Jesus Christ…” Maya throws up her middle finger, right in front of Karen Van Hersching, before swiveling back on her heels to face them. Despite her bold display, she doesn’t seem at all embarrassed, dazzling grin intact as she pushes up her chunky sunglasses onto her forehead. “Hi there. I’m here for Isadora?”

Karen pauses, like she doesn’t know what to say. Isadora can’t say she’s surprised—Maya has been known to render people speechless. Even just standing at five feet square, her huge personality makes her feel like a giant standing on their doorstep. If Karen thought _Lucas_ was scary, well…

“I’m here, I’m ready,” Isadora says, throwing her foster mother a life preserver and rushing to get out of there. “I should be back around dinner?”

“Okay. Well, have fun,” Karen says uncertainly, still eyeing Maya, who has turned to stick her tongue out at their ride. High society politeness is engrained in her foster parents, but the next words out of her mouth seem far from genuine. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in for a bit before you go?”

“Oh, no, that’s alright,” Maya says cheerfully. “I technically wasn’t even supposed to come ring the doorbell—Izzy is being real secretive about her humble abode.” She cranes her neck to peer around them, getting a glimpse of the inside. “I was hoping to maybe just get a peek...”

Isadora hops out onto the stoop, taking Maya’s arm and starting to drag her down the steps. “Be back tonight!”

“Nice to meet you!” Maya shouts, allowing Isadora to tug her along as she gives Karen a blithe wave. Once the door slams shut and they’re on the sidewalk, she swings back around and frees herself from her grip. “Nice place, Iz. Such fancy digs.”

“You are the worst. Didn’t I say to text when you got here? And I would come down and meet you?”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that? This day is about _fun_, girl, remember that. And I was right, meeting your foster mom by happenstance was plenty of fun.”

“More like scarring her for life. You’re not for everybody, you know.”

“Yes, and wasn’t that fun?” She holds out her arms, pale shoulders bright under the sun and exposed by her bathing suit top. Isadora notices for the first time that she has a light smattering of freckles across her nose and forehead, only noticeable in the glaring sunlight rather than the artificial beam of stage lights. “Don’t I get credit for that?”

If she’s being honest, yes, the look of horror on Karen’s face was amusing. But Isadora isn’t going to inflate her ego any more. She nudges her off the curb. “Just get going, Broadway Barbie.”

Isadora follows Maya to the car and climbs into the back seat after her, finding the familiar faces of her A class cohort already inside. Yindra is the one driving, Nigel upfront with her in the passenger seat and arguing with her about the aux cord. Haley and Clarissa are in the very back, leaving the middle seats open for her and Maya. They’re all dressed for a day in the sun, the interior of the van smelling like pine air freshener and sunscreen.

Though she feels completely out of her element, it’s a relief that the rest of them don’t seem opposed to her presence. Haley and Clarissa each give her a greeting, and Nigel looks over his shoulder give her a nod. Given that he and Yindra are somewhat honorary technicians, by whatever rules Lucas made up, she supposes they’re kind of her comrades. “Hey, Isa.”

“Hi.” She glances to Maya as they start down the street. “No Zay?”

Yindra answers instead, voice loud to project to the back. “He’s meeting us there. Easier, since he’s driving from Queens—Nigel, for the love of God, turn that shit _down_,” she demands, swatting at his hand.

“Appreciate good music,” he fires back, turning up the acoustic alternative groove.

It’s a lot of noise and action and socialization all at once, and Isadora can feel herself growing more tense. She can feel herself retreating inward, and if things keep up like this she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to interact with them before too long. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe she should’ve passed on the offer—and maybe following any of Maya’s ideas should be avoided in the future.

Surprisingly, though, it’s Maya who comes to her rescue. “You all are animals. At least turn it down enough so that we can all _think_! Some of us don’t enjoy a hectic environment.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Nigel comments, but he obliges. The chaos of the car returns to a level Isadora can stomach.

“And which of you is _thinking_? I didn’t know you could do that,” Yindra jeers.

Maya ignores them, rolling her eyes. She shares a tacit exchange with Isadora, shrugging. _These are my colleagues. What can you do?_

“Charlie is also meeting us there,” Haley explains, leaning forward to chat. Clarissa does so as well, listening intently as Haley speaks. Isadora really only knows them as a duo from class, seemingly always together whether or not Charlie is present. In some ways, they kind of remind her of Dylan and Asher. “He said he had other plans that he was coming from beforehand, so it made more sense for him to just catch up on his own.”

“Priest Gardner has social plans?” Maya laughs. “Color me shocked.”

“Should be fun either way. I like your flannel, by the way,” Clarissa chimes in. “It’s cute.”

Isadora can’t think of the last time one of her friends complimented her clothes. Maybe it’s because she’s normally surrounded by boys who can’t dress themselves. “Uh, thanks.”

Clarissa smiles. The car settles into about three different conversations, and Isadora doesn’t much participate in any of them, but she finds she’s content to just listen. It’s a change from the way she is with the techies, where she feels her voice needs to be heard and she could argue with Nate or painstakingly explain something to Dave and Dylan for days, but it’s not necessarily a bad change. She feels a bit like a spy hidden in enemy trenches, observing the performers so up close. But listening to Nigel and Yindra argue with Maya about the artistic validity of Miley Cyrus, and Haley and Clarissa eagerly chatter about these concert tickets they’ve been eyeing for weeks, Isadora she finds they’re really not all that disparate from her usual crew. Not better, not worse. Just different.

And, optimistically, she thinks she’s in for a good day.

* * *

It’s about an hour to the beach they’ve chosen to takeover for the afternoon, a somewhat secluded spot Haley knows about due to her upper-middle class family having “connections” (this, Maya whispers to her as they exit the vehicle, at least makes inviting her worthwhile). They make their way to the boardwalk where they meet up with Zay and Charlie, both already hanging out by the shops and seemingly comfortably chatting when the group of them arrive. Then it’s down to the shore, Yindra leading the charge with confidence enough to rival Maya.

It’s interesting, Isadora observes, how different the dynamics between them all can be off school time versus when they’re all jostling for spotlight on the Adams stage. Yindra often takes a backseat to the diva antics of Maya, but she seems to be much more the ringleader amongst the performer circle with a natural charisma and sense of initiative. Isadora often forgets Haley and Clarissa when she’s trying to list off her classmates given how quiet they are, but they each sparkle with their own personality when in closer proximity. She learns Clarissa has snark up her sleeve that could match Jade, their own silent but sarcastic member. She thinks about the divide that exists between them, the techies and the performers, and she wonders if the same is applicable in reverse. That maybe the reason Maya can’t stand Dylan and Asher, and the girls find Lucas and Nate so obnoxious, and Jade so mousy and uninteresting, is because they simply haven’t taken the time to get to know them. To look past the first impressions, walk a mile with them with sand between their toes and sea spray in their nostrils while they bake under the unbearably hot Manhattan sun.

Look at her. She’s getting so romantic and dramatic. This is what too much performer exposure will do to you, she supposes.

It’s Zay who pokes her out of her introspection, Maya occupied playfully arguing with Yindra about something ahead of them. He slows down a bit so he can walk pace with her, raising his eyebrows in interest. “Brave of you to actually show up. I gotta say, when Maya told me she was planning the trip with you, I didn’t really believe her.”

“Yes, well, I’m a versatile woman. And I don’t scare easy.”

“Can’t, if you’re friends with Maya Hart.” Zay gives her a grin, and she matches it. She’s always had a lot of respect for Zay, so she finds its easy to engage with him. “How’s your summer going?”

Where to begin? Should she mention the sweltering heat, making her already cramped and uncomfortable bedroom she shares with Catherina feel even more claustrophobic? Or how part of the reason she’s even here is because she was so desperate for company in a summer that has felt so disjointed and lonely she was willing to go to Maya Hart? Or maybe how she had to emotionally nurse her best friend back from the brink for the first two weeks, only for him to completely dump her and disappear off the radar with seemingly no trouble at all? As if dropping her had no effect on him, like she was trash he just needed to dump on the curb before he drove off with his two new best friends to do God knows what bullshit? Like she’s always been this tacked on element to their friendship, so easy to snip away and proceed like she was never there at all?

Isadora opts for none of the above. She know he’s asking out of politeness, not to hear the whole tragic tale. “Oh, you know. Muggy. How about you? How was the Kossal program?”

Zay entertains her with stories from the camp the rest of their walk down the beach, the group of them finally coming to a stop near a dugout where they can set up their lunch. All of them brought something to contribute except for her and Maya, which Maya said was fine on the basis that they’re poor as dirt and can’t be expected to be throwing around goods and services willy-nilly. Isadora felt nervous about it at first, but the only ragging done is on Maya, who takes it with cocky grace anyway. There’s plenty of food even in spite of no contribution from her, and Isadora continues to listen with slight fascination as she watches this whole different group of her classmates interact.

The conversation doesn’t get especially interesting until later, once they’ve finished with their food and are starting to break off into smaller groups. Yindra and Clarissa take to cleaning up all their stuff and making sure it gets disposed of properly—no litter on their watch, Clarissa declares—walking all the way back up the beach towards the shops to use the recycling stations. Zay and Charlie end up drifting away from the rest of them pretty naturally, the two of them continuing easy conversation as they walk down towards the water.

Haley watches them, a strange look in her eyes that Isadora can’t place as Zay playfully elbow bumps Charlie’s arm. “I don’t know when they suddenly became such good friends.”

“It’s not all that recent. They spent a lot of time together last year,” Nigel says, poking at the kindling left over from an earlier bonfire with a stick.

“I guess.”

Isadora frowns, confused. “Is it weird that they’re friends? They’re both dancers and stuff, right?”

“Oh, and that’s the automatic key to friendship,” Maya says flatly. She’s stretched out on the sand next to her, sunglasses on and plaintively soaking up the sun.

“It’s not weird,” Nigel clarifies. Isadora is growing increasingly grateful for his willingness to lay things out in plain terms, and how she never feels like he’s talking down to her. She can start to see why Jade has such an obvious crush on him, at least obvious in the techie circle. His mouth quirks into a smirk. “Haley is just possessive because she _likes _Charlie.”

“Shut up!” Haley snaps, scuffing sand towards him with her heel.

That’s news to Isadora. She figures it would be, given that she never pays attention to either of them during the school year. “And him hanging out with Zay is a problem because…?”

“It’s not a problem,” Haley says with a sigh. She continues to look after them, wistful. “It’s just that before they became friends, Charlie hung out with me and Clarissa way more. Not to say he doesn’t now, but I feel like I haven’t seen him at all this summer. He always claims he’s busy, but he never tells me with what.” She huffs. “But given how great the two of _them _are getting along, I get the feeling he’s at least made time for Zay…”

Nigel starts humming pointedly. “_Cause you’re too sexy beautiful, and everybody wants a taste, it’s my right to be hellish, I still get jealous…”_

Haley groans, lunging towards Nigel and shoving him off the rock he was seated on. He cracks up, the two of them launching into a quick back and forth over whether or not Haley has a crush, and does Nigel _really _have the right to talk, considering he never does _anything _about his crushes? At that point he stops laughing, casting a nervous glance in Isadora’s direction. As if she’ll know something about that comment, like he should be wary of her knowledge. Before she can question it, Maya rises to her feet and stretches her arms to the sky.

“Well, I think I want to stretch these model legs,” she says, tone bored. Also ironic, given that she’s about a foot short of being modelesque. “Isadora. Walk with me?”

Isadora doesn’t argue, letting Maya lead the way as they head down towards the shore in the same direction as Zay and Charlie. They’re so many paces ahead of them, there’s little risk of them bumping into one another, the boys still actively in conversation and visibly engaged with one another even from afar. Given how animated Zay is when he speaks, Isadora supposes she gets why Charlie seems so enthralled.

“Thank God we were able to escape that. It’s always so boring when they get to talking about crushes—let alone Haley’s ancient torch for Chuckie.” Maya pulls off her sunglasses, giving her a sharp smile. “Thanks for walking with me. Would’ve been lame to go alone with nothing but my thoughts or whatever.”

“For sure. I didn’t realize there were so many… feelings in our class.”

“Ugh, don’t get me started. It’s like everyone is so controlled by their hormones they don’t have working brain cells anymore. And everyone acting like they’re better than everyone else about it is such a joke. Haley was totally right to take Nigel to the carpet. He’s so ridiculous.”

Isadora hesitates. “Yeah, about that… he doesn’t… this is going to sound so weird—”

“Juicy. Love it. Go on.”

“He just gave me this weird look when… he doesn’t like _me, _does he?”

After a moment of hesitation, Maya bursts out laughing. She takes a minute to compose herself, fanning herself like the ingenue in a classic movie calming her tears. “God, no. Izzy, you realize you would break Nigel like a toothpick, right? You are _way _too domineering for him, he has no backbone. No, he doesn’t like you.”

“Then why did he look at me like that?”

“Because you’re close to the person he _does _like, and that’s dangerous. Word might get around, you know, if you happen to hear this or that or the other.” Maya exhales dramatically, tilting her face up to soak up the sun as they saunter. “That’s what’s so important to everyone, see? All their little secrets. The drama of it all would be fun if it weren’t about something as inane as romance.”

Isadora tries to think of who she would be close to that Nigel would be concerned about. It has to be a techie, unless it’s Maya, and she highly doubts it’s Maya. She’s not sure if Nigel is queer or not, but either way the techie crew doesn’t offer many options. There’s no way he likes Lucas—it’s hard to, really, even as a friend sometimes—and Dylan and Asher are already matched up. She guesses it could be unrequited love, but the way Haley was needling him about it, that seems unlikely. And if she goes by the heteronormative route…

She almost stops in her tracks. Could it be that Jade, who has been crushing on Nigel since they were freshmen, is the subject of his affections too? That they actually like each other, and the other just has no idea? Jade is one of the shiest techies in the crew, so she knows there’s no chance in Hell of her ever making the first move with Nigel. But if he really does like her back… if he likes her, and she _knew _he liked her, then maybe…

Isadora thinks she should text her with the possibility, then remembers the way of the world this summer. That the techie group chat has been uncomfortably dead for weeks, that she wouldn’t even know how to open that conversation with Jade, that maybe it’s riskier to get her hopes up and be proven wrong than say nothing at all and let their silence continue. If Isadora knows anything about herself, it’s that she’s absolute shit at relationships. Perhaps she should keep her opinions to herself.

Maya tugs her back into the present. “You get it, anyway. You’re not into the whole romance thing either.”

“Actually, that’s not true,” Isadora blurts without thinking.

Maya’s turn to stop. She freezes and holds an arm out to halt Isadora, waiting until she meets her eyes to quirk her eyebrows. “Now wait just a minute…”

“Nevermind. Did I say something?”

“Isadora De La Cruz has crushes? Isadora De La Cruz is a _romantic_?”

“That is not at all what I said.” Isadora frowns. “But why is that so hard to believe?”

Maya shrugs, continuing their steady pace forward. “I don’t know. I guess it just seemed beneath you, like me. You’re so driven, you know, focused on the things that actually matter, I just assumed you weren’t all that into it either.”

Isadora honestly isn’t sure where she falls on the whole thing. She knows she’s had crushes, can remember each of them and exactly what they felt like. The moment they bloomed inside her and the moment they inevitably fizzled out, for a number of reasons. If she thinks hard about it, really digs deep into what she wants out of life, then she knows love is part of the equation somewhere. It’s hard to admit, but it’s true, only it seems so unlikely when she puts that desire against reality. For her to find someone interested in her, for things not to fall apart like her own family, for things to stop being so crazy for five seconds that she could even contemplate potential relationships.

Not to mention, she can barely seem to keep friends right now. So she figures she should focus on that first.

Still, she refutes Maya’s perspective. “I think a woman can have both.”

“Hey, now, I’m not being anti-feminist. Love and career, sure, whatever—mine just happen to be one in the same.” She flips her sunglasses back on her face, tossing a smirk in her direction. “But now that you’ve said it, I have to know. Did you like anyone at Triple A? Or _do _you?”

Isadora pauses. It feels like a friendship test, almost—whether she’s going to deem to trust Maya enough to share these sort of secrets with her. That’s what all best friends do in media. She figures she’ll leave out the part where she think she might be somewhat attracted to _her_, in spite of her better judgment and if she’s being honest, though she’s certain she would never want to actually date her. But otherwise…

“Yindra was first,” Isadora admits, and from the way Maya’s smile widens she can tell she’s interested. “Not really a full crush because I didn’t actually know her, but you know, she’s… well, gorgeous.”

“Yeah, I totally get that,” Maya concurs. “She’s got beauty and brains, not to mention talent. She might be able to square up with me if she would be willing to get her hands a little dirty.”

“Then the other main one was Nate.”

At this, Maya snorts pointedly. “_Nate_? Nate Martinez.”

“I know, I know, he’s annoying as hell. But he’s actually really funny, and a good friend. We kind of think of him as the techie bulldog. And you have to admit, he’s kind of cute.”

“I will admit no such thing because I don’t believe in its truth.”

Isadora rolls her eyes. “Anyway, it was a long time ago. That lasted for most of freshman year, and then at some point I just got over it. That’s why I’m amazed Haley has apparently liked Charlie for so long—after so much nothing, you’d think she’d get over it. Or at least have discovered enough flaws about him by now to render it null.”

“Yeah, you’d certainly think. Should be easy, too, since Charlie is about as interesting as sandpaper.” Maya scrunches her face. “Not even sandpaper, he’s too smooth for that. Just regular, plain printer paper.”

Isadora laughs, casting a glance ahead of them. Zay and Charlie have disappeared off the path, no longer in their line of sight. Given the way Zay seemed fully invested in their conversation, he must not think Charlie is so uninteresting.

“Well, what about you, then?” Isadora asks. “You’ve really never had any crushes.”

“Nope.”

“Never. Not just at Triple A. Like, ever?”

“Not one. Don’t have the time, don’t have the interest.” Maya shrugs, obviously not at all bothered. “Not to mention there’s no one out there who could ever possibly match me, so I’m not going to waste my energy forcing a crush that doesn’t exist. And no, least of all at Triple A. Please, we’re all psychotic.”

Can’t argue with that. Still, curiosity itches at Isadora’s mind. “Wow. Are you sure? I mean… honestly, for a little bit there, I was kind of wondering if you and Farkle—”

In an instant, Maya’s whole demeanor changes. It’s as if the warmth from the sun is leeched right out of her, her posture stiffening and cocky smile dimming away. She continues to step forward in silence, seemingly ignoring Isadora’s point entirely, until she finds something to say.

“No. And good thing too, considering he wasn’t even a good friend, so.”

Maya’s tone makes it clear without any elaboration where she stands on everything that happened at the end of the year. She can play aloof all she wants, but Isadora can tell the Farkle of it all stings, and she is usually shit at picking up on that sort of thing.

Honestly, now that she thinks about it, it’s hard _not_ to pick up on the Farkle of it all. How they’re on this huge outing, all of the major A class players present, and yet he’s nowhere to be found. How sometimes in conversation, when they’re relaying an anecdote from class or a funny story about rehearsal, they’ll get right up to the part where they’re supposed to mention his name, to bring him back into the narrative, and it’s like the world takes a collective pause. Like it stumbles over his name, his existence, and marks it as a misplaced object before continuing on without ever fully addressing him. As if somehow they’ve all gotten this memo to erase him from the narrative, like that’s the only way they’ll be able to recover from what happened.

She doesn’t know why, but Isadora thinks it’s pretty unfair. She’s never been Farkle’s biggest fan, in fact she often wants to kill him, but the way he’s been crushed under the Confessions page seems off to her. Sure, he fucked up—_majorly_—but it wasn’t just him that gave that Instagram power. He wasn’t the only one who said rude things about their classmates, did something petty on the page, let their ugly emotions get the better of them. He just happened to do it the loudest, to be chosen as the page’s strategic grand finale, and so now he’s carrying all of the guilt while the rest of them move on pretending they were never involved. She can’t imagine what that feels like. She can’t imagine how they’re going to grapple with that when they return to school and are all in the same building. She wonders, for a surreal second, if Farkle will even come back at all.

Her summer may be shitty and out of sorts, but at least she’s not being written out of it entirely. So in spite of it all, and despite how it makes that rivalrous part of her recoil, she finds herself hoping Farkle is having a good summer. That he endures it, just like her, and when the end of August rolls around and they’re back in Hell, he’s in attendance just like usual.

It’s odd, sickening in a way, but she doesn’t think Adams would be Adams without Farkle Minkus.


	10. farkle

For Farkle, summer isn’t.

It isn’t time. It isn’t a duration. It stretches on, an endless black hole,

N

E

V

E

R

E

N

D

I

N

G

A vacuum. No sound. No oxygen.

Calls unanswered. Apologies on read. Hours become days. Days become weeks. Same time, same place, same pulled shades.

There are no memories. No pillars to mark time. June is July. July is August. Summer is an instant—summer is forever.

Summer is _why’d you do it? _The same questions, over and over and over, repetitive stitches in the fabric of his mind like the throw blanket he stares at. The blanket burned into his eyelids, the only thing he’ll remember.

It’s hot. Melting. He stays under the blanket. Summer is hot, but he’s stone cold.

Summer is _I didn’t do it. _Arguments of self-defense, rare in the vacuum of nothing. Loose threads. Mental warfare of self-hatred versus self-pity, occasionally disrupting the static. He didn’t pull the trigger. He didn’t hit post. He didn’t blast his identity for the whole school to see and pin months worth of blame and confessions on his shoulders.

_But you sent it. You said it._

Broken spine. No more guilt.

Nothing instead. Summer is nothing.

Summer isn’t.

Doesn’t matter. He knows that. What he did or didn’t do, what he is or isn’t. To them, he did. To them, he is. So forever he will have done, forever he will be.

The villain in AAA history.

Endless vacuum. Same spots on the ceiling. One meal a day. Then a coffee, if he wakes up. Then nothing. He is nothing. Summer is nothing.

No time to mark, no time to go back. He can’t go back. The only place that felt like home, no home anymore. Exodus. Exile. Execution if he tries.

Summer protects him from what’s to come. Summer might just kill him.

(Summer already did).

No sound. No friends. Nothing. Summer nothing, he and it. Summer goes, and goes, and goes

Until

it

ends.


	11. the list ( dylan )

The longest summer in history proves that Dylan knows absolutely nothing at all.

This sucks for a number of reasons. He doesn’t usually think so much about this sort of thing—why things suck. Not that he _tries_ not to, his brain just doesn’t tend to go there. His dad says it’s because he’s “a good kid,” easy-going like him with the infectious optimism of his mom. Asher says it’s because he’s “one of a kind,” a brand of human unlike anyone else, a sentiment usually said with fondness (though an offhand eye roll isn’t out of the question). Isadora says it’s because he’s neurotypical; Nate claims it’s because he doesn’t think at all.

Granted, Isadora told him so ages ago, back in freshman year. He didn’t know what it meant at the time, so he looked it up. He doesn’t know what defines a “typical” brain, or how it’s supposed to think, but he would have to say he isn’t exactly sure his functions all that normally. Once she got to know him, Isa herself ended up taking back the statement, instead diagnosing him with ADHD despite her lack of a psychology degree or doctoral certificate.

He’s never been to see a doctor, or anything, and his dad never acted like anything was off about him, so he doesn’t have any sort of formal diagnosis. So long as he’s content and making it through the day, he supposes it doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t think about it much, anyway.

Huh. Maybe Nate is right.

This summer, on the other hand, is prompting a whole lot of thinking. In spite of the theory that he simply doesn’t do a lot of it, Dylan actually really likes thinking—at least what he defines it as in his head. The way he sees it, there’s two kinds of thinking. There’s his brand of it, where he finds himself wandering off to when Cory starts a particularly boring history lesson or Maya steps up to do yet another flashy solo that he’s already seen a hundred variations of since they started at AAA. It’s like a casual odyssey into the unknown, letting his mind jump and dance around with whatever thought it wants. It’s entertaining at the very least, and on a good day he gets some of his best ideas from those mental adventures. It’s pleasant, free, a landscape where he can come and go as he pleases that never fails to pass the time.

Then, there’s Asher’s way of thinking.

He only credits the title to his boyfriend because he didn’t even realize people operated this way until he knew him. And he means _really _knew him, past all the first impressions and knocked-down walls that hide all the imperfections and insecurities. Sure, there’s something special to that early period of friendship—and especially a relationship—where the other person seems perfect, but Dylan actually much prefers the full, unabridged Asher Garcia experience. He likes discovering his little ticks and quirks, his pet peeves (condescending tones, people talking with their mouths full, janitor Harley’s poor dusting ability), and bad habits (tying his sneaker laces too tight for fear that they’ll come undone and he’ll trip so they pinch his feet instead, picking at his eyebrows, chewing the inside of his cheek) and serrated edges (despite his polite and demure demeanor, he has a hot temper that can be triggered by a range of things, from Maya Hart to careless prop storage to idiotic house hunters on HGTV). He loves learning new things about him, shades of his personal reality that color his entire world a different palette than his own, like the insecurities and anxieties. Being trusted with those things, let into Asher’s carefully constructed protective shell and allowed to stay, might be his favorite thing in the world.

It’s ironic that Asher spent so much time and effort trying to keep all of that hidden away, terrified it would run him off, but all it does is make Dylan love him even more.

Asher’s way of thinking is a near constant, laborious process. His mental journeys are not adventures but systems of torture, taking every possible thought and turning it around over and upside down to exhaust every single angle. He doesn’t jump from thought to thought with whimsy but rather falls into the same ruts again and again, and it’s draining instead of liberating. But even though it’s not bringing him any joy, Asher can’t tune out of it—he thinks this way by rote, an obligation he feels he _has _to fulfill lest his lack of doing so lead to an irreversible mistake.

Dylan is an explorer of his mind, traversing on hikes at his own leisure. Asher is a prisoner of his, running laps on the track over and over until he collapses.

In his own words, Asher thinks this way because he has anxiety (diagnosed not by Isadora, but by his psychologist mother, who has multiple degrees). Yogi says Asher thinks that way because he’s a Libra, whatever that means.

Although the two of them have discussed their alternate mental states of mind relatively frequently, and Dylan always listens as attentively as possible, he admits he still didn’t really understand how on Earth Asher’s brain functioned. It’s a good thing, they’ve agreed, that they have such divergent ways of looking at the world, as it gives them plenty to share with one another, but part of him felt frustrated that he couldn’t grasp it. He couldn’t add it to the list of things he truly knows about Asher, and he figured he wouldn’t ever understand it unless he could step into his skin and experience the world from his mind. And that seemed like a ridiculous thought, because if he did that, then he wouldn’t be there in _his _skin and mind to appreciate Asher, and that’s just counterintuitive. So he let it go, focusing on all the things he can work to understand and everything else he has yet to discover.

Then comes the hottest summer in decades, sticky and uncomfortable and riddled with explosive situations like some emotional version of Minesweeper, and suddenly Dylan sort of gets Asher’s way of thinking.

The main reason he even notices is the lack of sleep. He’s never had trouble falling asleep. It’s kind of his calling card at school where he’ll doze off even during a noisy tech rehearsal if he’s not careful, but the longer the season stretches on the more he finds himself tossing and turning rather than getting any rest. It’s likely because of the heat—again, it’s disgustingly hot, and the A/C in his apartment isn’t exactly top quality on his dad’s community center budget. He tries to explain this to Asher when he tells him, that it’s probably nothing to worry about, but Asher gets concerned anyway, asking him to elaborate which turns into more thinking and then talking about thinking until it’s just thinking about thinking about thinking.

Laps around the mental track. Now they’re both doing time.

Though he doesn’t want him stressing about him, Dylan can’t complain when Asher insists he sneak over to stay the night more frequently after that. Sure, it’s not exactly peak comfort to share a bed when it’s all icky from the sweat and the humidity, but the air conditioning is way stronger at the Garcia house.

And he gets to be with Asher. He’s not sure what his boyfriend was planning to do by inviting him over—monitor him until he gets some sleep or else nag him into submissive slumber?—but in some ways it works as intended. He’s found that he does sleep better when he sleeps over with him, for whatever cosmic reason he’ll never be able to articulate or comprehend.

In an attempt to stem Dylan’s viral case of Asher-thinking, Asher starts teaching him some of his mental health tricks to try. Even when he promises him he’s fine and that he doesn’t need the therapy exercises, Asher gives them to him anyway, though he hardly has to bother explaining them. They’ve been together for over a year and a half, and Dylan has learned a lot about his anxiety in that time, including familiarity with most of his methods. And though he still doesn’t think he’s anywhere close to seriously converting to his way of thinking, he does his due diligence and gives them a fair shake, if only to be able to assure Asher that he did.

The easiest one for him to implement, according to Asher, is the list method. It’s sort of like keeping a diary, but meant for specifically when the thoughts in his head get to be too jumbled and buzzy and overwhelming. That’s when he grabs a piece of scrap paper—Asher has a whole notebook specifically for this purpose that he replaces at the start of each year, but he states Dylan can use any paper and writing utensil he has laying around (yes, even a bright yellow highlighter if he _really _wanted to, Dylan made sure to ask for the sake of clarity)—and writes down every aspect of the thought that has created the rut in his brain he can’t climb out of.

He starts with the good things, the positive thought processes, meaning to give as many of them their due as he possibly can. Then he moves to the negatives, sometimes taking up multiple pages, scribbling them all down. Once it’s all out there, thrown out of his brain and onto the paper, he takes all of the bad things and crumples them up. Crunching and folding and compacting them as small and insignificant as he possibly can, and then he throws them away. Metaphorically ridding his brain of them, taking the trash to the curb. It doesn’t always work, and it’s no magical fix (there isn’t one), but sometimes it helps. Sometimes, Asher says, is better than never.

So that’s what Dylan does the next time he finds himself evading sleep, staring at the ceiling in his sheen of Manhattan sweat and waiting for Asher to text him to come over. Rather than ignoring the strange tingling in his fingers (another new sensation) and different (new) form of restless energy, he grabs a piece of paper and his favorite Spongebob pen and sits down at the desk he almost never uses.

This summer sucks for a number of reasons. They are listed below.

**1\. It feels like the longest summer ever.**

This one is especially unfair. In theory, any other year with any other circumstances, a long summer would be Dylan’s dream. No school, plenty of time with his friends, the freedom to adventure and create and be his own person. The summer always seems to fly by, and the one time it doesn’t turns out to be the hottest, hardest, most damned season ever. Not funny, universe. Not funny at all.

**2\. It’s hot.**

Goes without saying, but Dylan says it anyway. If he daydreams about peeling off his skin or getting stuffed in the coolers at Walgreens, it’s too hot. If he spends most of the day walking around with as little clothing as possible just for some sense of relief, but his boyfriend won’t return the favor out of deeply ingrained modesty so there’s nothing to gain, it’s too hot. If Grant is being even more waspish than usual because he’s not only melting, but thirteen years old and melting, it’s too hot. If all he can think about basically all of the time when he’s not strangely running the laps is how hot it is, then it’s too damn hot.

Even kissing isn’t fun anymore when it’s so hot. Even _kissing Asher. _Worst summer ever.

**3\. Everyone is gone.**

Well, this one is only a half-truth. The only one who is literally out of the country is Dave, who is spending most of the summer visiting his extended family in Belgium. But absence is a feeling that seems contagious this year, Dylan losing track of most of his friends in one way or another throughout the course of the break.

It’s like he never has a sense of where everyone is at once. He has good tabs on Isadora at the top of the season, when she’s their only connection to Lucas, but once he resurfaces and starts looping them into adventures its as though she slips right off his radar. He hears through Jade who heard from Clarissa that it sounds like she’s hanging out with performers now, which seems completely out of the blue, but he isn’t sure how to ask her about it and is so consistently distracted with Lucas and Asher that he forgets to follow up. Jade is spending less time with the boys, fed up with Nate’s complaints about the heat and Lucas’s uneven behavior, and overall the techie crew feels more distant than ever. He caught up with Riley once, in the middle of the summer—a relief, because after how badly everything ended at school, he was beginning to worry about her—but hasn’t seen or heard from her since. Lucas himself is the least reliable, popping in and out of his and Asher’s life like whack-a-mole, and even when he _is _there it’s like he’s not really there. He’s just a shadow, a shade of his former self that he and Asher chase around like Peter Pan until he disappears again.

Dylan orients himself by his friends. When they’re out of orbit, he feels just as lost, drifting through time and space with nothing to tether him. He’s always grateful for Asher and his unfailingly reliable consistency, but he appreciates it now more than ever. Without him, at this point, Dylan thinks he would probably just float away.

**4\. Learning just how dumb you actually are.**

Every single day, something else happens that shows him just how little he knows. About his friends, about himself, about everything under the blazing hot sun.

It’s not fair, because summer is supposed to be his break. When he’s at school, his brain functioning in that way that it does, he spends enough time feeling it. Sure, he doesn’t let it get to him or anything, but it’s not like he’s oblivious to the fact that everyone else seems to catch onto things much more quickly than he does. How could he not know, given how Mister Matthews basically groans every time he has to address him in class? He can usually get some laughs out of it, but suffice to say he has plenty of time during the year dedicated to being reminded that he knows nothing. Summer is supposed to be the escape.

And yet, here he is. Making the right choices only to learn they’re wrong, actively making the wrong choices only to learn the bad outweighs the good, stumbling over himself to keep everyone in good spirits. Like Sisy, rolling the boulder all the way up the hill and letting it run him back over, just to do it all again the next day. Asher told him about the tragic Greek dude during their mythology lesson last spring, and the only reason he remembers is because Asher was wearing an especially nice sweater that day, so his attention span was on high alert.

At least he learned something. Mister Matthews will never be pretty enough to manage that no matter what sweater he wears, so he might as well quit.

He doesn’t know how to tell Lucas stealing from Grand Central market isn’t a good idea, even if it is objectively fun when he makes it exciting the way he does. He doesn’t know how to say no, and so Asher can’t either, because there’s no way he’s letting them run headlong into trouble alone. He doesn’t know what will happen if they did, said no, and whatever it would be seems more dangerous and catastrophic than what they’re doing now. He doesn’t know where Lucas disappears to, for hours or sometimes days at a time, always reappearing with no warning and no explanation. He doesn’t know how to answer his dad when he asks how he spent his day without prompting the disappointed or worried crinkle in his brow, so he doesn’t say anything of substance, but then he doesn’t know how to process the sick feeling in his stomach over hiding things from him that helps keep him up at night. He doesn’t know what to say after they drop Lucas off each time and they drive the rest of the way to the Garcias, Asher crying silently but pretending that Dylan doesn’t notice, with his legs pulled up on the seat and fingernails digging into his knees. He doesn’t know how to make him stop crying, how to break the loop, even though it’s the only thing in the world he wishes he knew.

The only thing he knows is that he doesn’t know anything. Now, he knows that all the time.

**5\. Impossible decisions.**

He already wrote about the choices, the ones that seem right only to be wrong and the wrong ones that seem right in the moment. This summer feels full of choices, a convoluted choose-your-own-adventure game of yes or no answers that either allow him to survive another day or send him hurtling back to start. He and Asher have found themselves trapped in a video game, but with zero understanding of how the controls work and very real stakes riding on every move they make. And in real life, there’s no reset button.

Answer that text from Lucas, or don’t? He probably won’t do anything too crazy in the hour without a response—but what if?

Risk skating all the way across town at eleven at night to sneak into Asher’s window to stay the night, or don’t? Both of you are better off when you’re together, and his parents aren’t likely to find out, or if they do know they don’t care—but what if?

Tell your dad that you stole the sunglasses in your back pocket from a stand downtown just to prove you could and they’re burning a hole into your jeans and conscience, or don’t? He’ll probably understand and help you figure out how to right the wrong, or at least give you the reassurance that it doesn’t define who you are—but what if?

Go along with Lucas’s antics yet again, because you know he wants the company, needs the friendship, even if he’d never actually say so, even though every single time Asher ends the night in tears, or don’t?

This, Dylan knows, is the real root of all of it. The sleepless nights, the laps around the mental track, the reason for a list at all. Everything else is unideal, of course, but what it comes down to is this impending doom, this looming fear of the final decision he’s going to have to make that he will never be able to take back. No reset buttons, no do-overs, catastrophic consequences no matter what he chooses.

Asher, or Lucas?

In his heart, he knows the answer. Asher. Of course, it’s Asher. If there’s any bright spot to the unforgiving summer, it’s him. Even on the hottest, stickiest, most unpleasant days, Asher sparks joy in his heart with no effort at all. He’s all the things worth knowing, air-conditioning against the humidity, the sole thing keeping him grounded to this plane of reality. Asher is his gravity, and he can’t imagine losing him for any reason other than by the express request of Asher himself. He thinks about it, too, every time they drop Lucas off and he senses the tears coming from the passenger seat next to him. Next time, Dylan promises himself, he’s going to say something. Next time, things will be different. Next time, Asher isn’t going to end the evening chipping away another piece of his sanity and wiping the wetness from his cheeks, because Dylan is going to put a stop to it. If it’s a choice between anything and Asher Garcia, Asher wins every time.

… and yet.

If the choice were so easy, if the promise were so easy to keep, then Dylan would’ve done it by now. They wouldn’t still be stuck on this level, trapped in this endless loop, the same muggy, tear-stained summer night. If choosing Asher were so simple, prioritizing him above all else, then he would’ve already. He wouldn’t be lying awake ruminating on it, sweating for more reason than one.

But he can’t just abandon Lucas. He can’t just drop his friend. Especially not now, when it’s clear to him that Lucas _needs _his friends more than ever. Asher knows this, too, which is why the issue has never actually come up. They’ve never explicitly discussed it, leaving the concern unspoken and the tears silent and unaddressed, as if they can both pretend they don’t happen. Because neither of them want to consider the possibility that their best friend can’t be helped, that all the effort they’re putting into trying to save him is worthless, but more than that neither of them want to fathom what might happen the moment they give up. If they give up and let Lucas go, then who will be there to keep him from walking off the edge? He’s already broken a wrist—both of them can imagine what comes next.

What kind of friend is he if he abandons his best friend, precisely in the moment when he needs him the most? But then, what kind of boyfriend is he if he willingly ignores the distress of his partner, distress that regardless how mute Asher attempts to make it feels like it’s going to deafen him?

Friend, or lover? In these moments, Dylan doesn’t feel like very much of either.

Impossible.

But hey, at least it’s out there, sort of. Dylan has his list, supposedly freeing him of the burden of it all in his mind, though he doesn’t feel any less confused. Maybe this stuff works for people like Asher, people with brilliant minds that function the right way with the rare exception of the Asher-thinking affliction. But he tried, and that counts for something. Better to get it out and say he did it, since it’s his job _not _to be the one weighed down with things like this. He’s empty-headed, light-hearted, bringing the light to keep everyone else out of the darkness. So light that without his tether, he might just float away.

So he crumples the paper, crunching and folding and compacting until his fingers sting, and tosses it definitively into his wastebasket. Then he digs it down deep for good measure, just in case it might crawl back out and inform him he forgot something. He has a habit of being forgetful, sometimes.

He’s still awake when Asher texts him an hour later, and the thoughts follow him out the door and onto the streets back to the Garcias. He’s not really surprised. He didn’t think it would be that easy, but then, what does he know?

He doesn’t think much about it, anyway.


	12. the night of the show ( zay )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to Katie, my awesome ZC warrior, for the conversations and brainstorms that became this chapter. ♥

Zay wants to make one thing explicitly clear. He is _not _falling in love with Charlie Gardner.

The moment that Charlie actually followed through on his promise to call him after their strange reunion, Zay knew he had to set these boundaries for himself. He has interest in him, he can’t deny that. He’s cute, and frustratingly endearing, but one phone call after a pattern of erratic behavior does not make him reliable. Charlie is just at the start of figuring all of this out—his sexuality, his potential, what he wants outside of the picture perfect heteronormative ivory tower his family built for him from the moment he was born. Zay has decided he’s happy to help him with that, but that in no way means he’s getting invested. He’s had enough catastrophic relationship experience for a lifetime, thank you very much. The last thing he’s going to do is march into another love affair doomed to be a disaster.

But a little summer fun… well, there’s nothing wrong with that.

Fleeting, temporary romances are like, a staple of the modern day artistic experience. There’s a reason the term “summer fling” exists, after all. Last summer, Yindra told him and Nigel all about this brief romance she had with a girl on the beaches of Malibu while her family took a hard-earned vacation to California. Zay is certain she embellished most of the details, and he wasn’t particularly interested in hearing about it at the time given he had just come out of one of the worst break-ups he’d ever experienced (the moment she mentioned the beach babe was a year or so older, some sort of alarm bell went off in his brain and he tuned out). Even still, there was a captivating whimsy to her tale of sun-kissed sparks, the thrilling exploration of new love and opportunity with the bittersweet guarantee that it would be over sooner than it began. An escape hatch in some ways, the perfect excuse to cut the relationship short on either side.

So falling in love, a real relationship? No, no. Not going to happen. But a no strings attached exploration, that could only benefit both of them…

Truthfully, Zay wasn’t sure even that would be a possibility. When Charlie did finally call him back after their rendezvous at the diner, it had been almost a week, and Zay figured he was going to tell him it was over. That he’d snapped out of it, that God had descended upon him and reminded him that heterosexuality was the only true righteous path, and that he’d have to sacrifice Zay to repent for the sin of even _considering _the notion of engaging in gay activity.

Okay, so maybe not that dramatic. Charlie has never been that kind of religious, and maybe Zay should give him a little more credit. It’s just that exaggerating it, building it up in his head as bigger and more ridiculous than it is, makes the sting of potential rejection a lot less intimidating. Strange, since Zay has never really been easily intimidated. It’s impressive that Charlie, the least intimidating person to walk planet Earth, has his defense mechanisms up and running. Maybe he should take it as a warning sign.

When Charlie calls, though, he doesn’t suddenly call him a sinner or declare that they can never interact again. Quite the opposite, he greatly implies that he wants to see him again, but he admits he doesn’t know what that means.

“As in?” Zay asks.

Charlie huffs, reluctant to articulate himself further. Zay can imagine the frown he’s making, how his mouth gets thin and all twisted up. “I mean, like… I don’t know how this is supposed to work. I’m not sure what’s supposed to happen next.”

“Well, once we’re done talking, you’ll hang up the phone. There’s a little red button you can use to end the call—”

His groan just makes Zay grin wider. “Shut up!”

“Okay, okay. But it’s really not all that complicated. Depending on what you want out of… whatever we are, we’ll just go from there. You know, like any other relationship. Believe it or not, there _are _elements that overlap between the saintly straight courting rituals and the rest of us.”

Silence on the other end. At first Zay is worried he took the Catholicism digs too far, but then he realizes the quiet is embarrassed muteness, not offense.

That’s a whole other layer to unpack. Zay hums. “Let me guess…”

“I don’t know anything,” Charlie says quickly. “Wait. That came out wrong. It’s not that I don’t know _anything_, and I’m not like—I’m not completely clueless, or like, sheltered. Like it’s not like you’ll have to give me the talk or anything—_Jesus Christ,_” he curses when Zay snorts, only making himself more flustered. “Shoot. I just mean like, I’ve never done… this. Not even with a girl. Although maybe that’s not really surprising.”

Zay honestly isn’t sure what he was expecting. He believes Charlie when he says he’s not totally oblivious, but he doesn’t know if he figured he had played the field before or not. Since he doesn’t seem totally sure about his identity, and went to a Catholic school for most of his youth, a girlfriend at one point or another didn’t seem out of the question.

“So I just mean that I’m not sure… how does this… go. Like, if we want to maybe… see more of each other, potentially, how does that happen? And if we do, how does that not immediately become stilted and weird?”

“I think the first thing we’d do is actually go _out_—”

“I don’t want this to ruin anything,” Charlie emphasizes, still stuck on his own train of thought. “You’re one of my best friends, and the only one who really…” His tone is solemn, all of the bashful levity present thus far forgotten. “Whatever we do, I don’t want it to mess that up. I don’t want to lose you, Zay. I can’t.”

The sincerity makes Zay’s heart pound. He understands the reservation. He knows what it’s like for a romance to fall apart and for what feels like your entire world to go with it. Especially if Charlie is telling the truth, and he really is the only person who he feels like actually knows him. Based on what he knows, Zay doubts he’s exaggerating.

And Zay feels the same way. He likes Charlie, and enjoys having him as a friend. Not to mention he genuinely likes spending time with him. They have a natural rapport, and get along easily, and have a lot in common despite all of their glaringly obvious differences. Charlie was there for him when he felt like he was isolated beyond reach, and that means a lot more than he thinks he could ever properly say.

“Nothing is going to get ruined,” Zay assures him. He hears Charlie exhale. “Look, all of this, anything we decide to do, it’s just… trying it. We’ll just take it one thing at a time. No pressure. No expectations.”

“Are you sure?”

What Charlie doesn’t realize, Zay is sure, is that this agreement is protecting him just as much. No commitments, no one gets hurt. “I’m sure. We’ll just keep doing us, try a couple different things, and then we’ll see what happens. Sound good?”

A moment of hesitation, then Charlie responds. Zay is glad to hear excitement back in his voice.

“Okay. Okay, I can handle that. So, what’s next?”

What’s next, Zay figures, is they go on a date. He doesn’t call it that, not out loud, because he’s sure the terminology would send Charlie running for the hills since he can’t even stomach the word “gay,” at least in relation to himself. As he explains it to him, they’re basically doing what they’ve already done a million times before, only this time they’re going into it with the mindset that it means something different. A little, a lot—how much doesn’t matter right now. They’ll figure that out later.

Naturally, this still makes Charlie nervous, so Zay takes responsibility for actually planning what they’ll do. He knows anything in the city is out of the question, even though logically anyone they know who might see them would simply assume they were just friends hanging out, so he brainstorms predominantly in his turf. Queens isn’t too shabby for options, thankfully, so he feels pretty good when he lands on a plan for that weekend. The weather is supposed to be nice, so Zay figures they can go for a picnic in this park he likes. No risk of sticking out, as tons of people do the exact same thing every day. No need to overthink or get especially dolled up (though Zay does still pick his favorite lucky shirt and pays more attention to his hair that afternoon before he heads out). Simple. Easy. As low stakes as it could possibly be.

It seems like Charlie is on the same page, and evidently not totally hopeless, because he looks slightly more put together when Zay pulls up at the end of his block to pick him up. Something about his hair, maybe, the way its brushed up away from his forehead, or that the cotton shirt he’s wearing is particularly well-fitted. When he climbs into the passenger seat, Zay notices he smells different, too. Pointedly fresh like clean linen, with a hint of something sharp, like a citrus or spice.

He smells great, to put it plainly. Zay considers asking him about it, if he hijacked his dad’s cologne or sprayed himself with air freshener or what, but he thinks it might be smarter not to draw attention to the small ways they’re treating this like more than a hangout. Charlie seems in a surprisingly optimistic mood, smile bright and enthusiasm clear in his voice as he greets him with hello and buckles his seatbelt.

Yeah, Zay figures he won’t do anything to jinx it. If they can get through the day and keep that grin intact, he’ll consider the experiment a success.

They do address it briefly on the ride back to Queens, checking that they’re both on the same page about what this evening is about. It’s casual, no pressure, just the two of them hanging out while aware of the _potential _that this could be something more. That maybe, provided they both feel comfortable and have fun, they could do “outings” like this again. And if not, if it ends up being an absolute mess, then they can back out with no harm done and know that their friendship will remain secure.

If this hangout is a bust, then it can be the last one. No questions asked.

As confident as Zay felt in the arrangement, bolstered by the safety of it, he finds himself second-guessing it as soon as the drive over and more and more as the date stretches on. Not because it’s a disaster, but for the exact opposite reason. Because he really does have fun with Charlie, who is at peak endearing when the situation is deemed non-threatening. Because they don’t run out of things to talk about the entire evening, and it’s hard to find people like that where conversation feels effortless. Because Charlie’s eyes are a special kind of alluring when they reflect the fading light of the pink-orange sunset, and his smile seems to get impossibly cuter the longer Zay is exposed to it. Because it’s as if all the things Zay likes so much about him, that make him such a great friend, are highlighted in bright neon with the possibility that it could all mean something more. That he could get used to its familiarity, that maybe it could all be his.

He should’ve thought his plan through more carefully, as he perhaps arrogantly failed to consider a glaring potential outcome. The chance that Charlie may be ready to call it quits with no repercussions after this, curiosity satisfied, but _he _might be the one left stuck wanting more.

Aside from that haunting thought in the back of his mind, however, the evening is more than enjoyable. It’s comfortable, the awful heat bearable for a spell, and Charlie makes him laugh so much he almost chokes on his food more than once. Though he wouldn’t say it for Charlie’s sake, Zay classifies it as the best first date he’s ever had. If it falls apart at the end, at least he can appreciate what he got.

Peace of mind comes sooner than he expected. Charlie doesn’t wait until the end of the night to make his opinion known, stopping Zay before he steps off the curb to get into the driver’s seat. He pauses, glancing at Charlie’s hand on his wrist and allowing him to pull him back onto the sidewalk in front of him.

Charlie’s expression is hard to read, so he can’t predict what verdict is coming for him. Zay tries to brace himself for the worst. “You good?”

“Um, yeah,” Charlie says. “Just wanted to… before we get back to my place. It’ll be harder to…” he trails off, searching for the words. “It won’t be the same there.”

Zay nods. He gets what he means, how he never seems able to function when they get too close to his house and he clams up again. He’s not sure how rejecting him would be any easier here when they have to drive a whole forty-five minutes back together, but Charlie rarely operates by his logic.

That, and Charlie isn’t planning on rejecting him. He slides his fingers down from around his wrist and takes his hand instead, tentatively reaching for the other too. Their eyes meet for a moment before Charlie drops his gaze. As hesitant as his movements are, though, it doesn’t feel like a mistake when Charlie steps forward and brushes their lips together.

It’s the gentlest Zay thinks he’s ever been kissed. Timid, but intentional, lingering as they pull apart. It’s not very long at all, but it’s the longest he’s shared with Charlie since the Kossal audition, and that night still feels like a fever dream. Sometimes he doubts he didn’t hallucinate it. But this kiss disproves that, brief as it is, because something about it is way too familiar for a mirage. The way his mouth moves, the softness of his lips, how he tastes, maybe all of the above. Zay doesn’t know.

All he knows for sure is that he knows it already, he remembers it fondly, and even before it’s over he wants more.

Though he was the one to pull away, Charlie seems caught in the moment for a while longer. He stands with his eyes closed, lips parted just slightly, catching his breath and trying to commit the experience to memory. Zay doesn’t dare move, not wanting to risk spooking him and sending their carefully constructed evening of carefree courtship tumbling down. Instead he watches him, reveling in the rare vantage point of being so close, not sure when he’ll get another chance. Memorizing the freckles across his nose, the length of his eyelashes, the definition of his cheekbones.

When Charlie opens his eyes, he keeps his gaze trained on their feet. He clears his throat, drifting closer, and for a crazy moment Zay wonders if he’s going to kiss him again. Then he lifts his head, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“I don’t want this to be the last one,” Charlie whispers.

Zay can’t remember the last time he felt relief like this. It floods through him, making him light-headed. Although he wants to remain chill, maintain his aloof and confident façade, he can’t help the smile that blooms across his face.

“Cool,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

Charlie mirrors his relief, letting out a sigh and offering another endearing smile. Zay doesn’t push his luck, but he leans forward to give him a kiss on the cheek, because it simply seems wrong to leave him with nothing.

Charlie lets him, which seems a promising sign all its own.

* * *

And so it goes. Zay and Charlie spend more and more time together as July grills Manhattan, escaping to Queens to continue their exploration. Zay finds himself blocking out whole chunks of his time for the chance that Charlie will want to hang out, and every time he calls first Zay’s heart beats a little faster in his chest. Still no pressure, no labels, no expectations, but every time they get together is fun and comfortable and both of them agree without fail that they want to do it again. So they do, melting away the rest of the summer in their own little world where nothing else matters.

It’s best that way, Zay reminds himself. This is the safest and most convenient set-up for both of them, in the freedom and anonymity of the summer season, and he’s totally content with what he gets. It’s just a summer fling, after all.

He is _not, _repeat _not_, falling in love with Charlie Gardner.

Even as he grows more familiar with him, Charlie still manages to surprise him. When Maya tries to convince him to come to the beach with her and a couple other friends from school, Zay invites Charlie on instinct, forgetting that the depth and complexity of their relationship is something that exists only in their little world. He figures that Charlie will refuse to go, or freak out over the sheer notion of it, but he’s surprisingly cool with the idea. They _are _friends, after all, so it’s fine if they go and hang out with a bunch of their other friends in a group where they’d have no reason to suspect anything. The rules of Charlie’s anxiety around the whole thing are inconsistent and difficult to learn, but Zay tries not to worry about it. It hardly matters, since what they have isn’t anything serious.

The one thing that doesn’t change much is their physical boundaries. The openness from their first date must’ve just been a fluke, born out of nerves, because as much as Charlie enjoys their outings, he doesn’t make any more moves to kiss him. He’ll occasionally offer a kiss on the cheek before he gets out of the car, but otherwise he keeps a sliver of safe distance between them. Sometimes Zay thinks he sees him consider it, in the way he looks at him, how his eyes dip down and he licks his lips—or even the couple of times he leans towards him as if he’s seconds from doing it—but it never happens.

Zay convinces himself it’s fine. Charlie is processing a lot more than he is about the whole thing, and he’s not going to push him. He knows how it feels to have someone pressure you into things you aren’t ready for, to convince yourself you are just so you don’t get left behind. So he’s not going to be the one pushing him in that direction, even if he really feels like he can sense that Charlie might want to. He’s not going to force his assumptions on him.

Besides, who cares if Charlie is a surprisingly good kisser for someone with very limited experience. Who cares if the memory of what they did on audition night lingers in his mind rent free? He’ll survive without it. It’s not like he’s really _attracted _to Charlie—he’s cute, obviously, but not worth losing his head over. He’s not _into _him. It doesn’t impact him much at all whether or not Charlie wants to kiss him.

Zay is cool with it. Unbothered. Totally chill.

Still, their dynamic evolves on its own whether they consciously upgrade it or not. Each time they hang out under the guise of their experiment rather than just as friends, the plans they make end up increasingly more intentional and romantic. Well, maybe _romantic_ isn’t the right word, but their choice in activities morph and shift with their familiarity with one another, and Zay finds them feeling more and more like clear “dates” than things that could be construed as casual.

This development feels more ironic the deeper into August they get and the closer school creeps. Zay assumes that when they go back to Adams, they’ll have to make a decision one way or another on what exactly they’re going to be. It would be too complicated to keep up their no expectations method during the school year, and he supposes that’s exactly why summer flings are what they are. If they lasted any longer than the hot season, they wouldn’t be famously fleeting.

Zay works really hard to keep the disappointment pushed down deep. Normally he’s eager for school to start again by the time he heads into late August—this year, he finds he never wants summer to end.

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting from Charlie as the likely end looms near, but as usual, what he gets isn’t it. Charlie seems fully content to continue on as they are, not at all concerned about the impending end of summer or what it means for their thing. In fact, if anything he seems to be leaning further into it than ever. It’s his idea, as the last couple weeks of summer roll around, for them to do something really special. He claims they should do something cool, a little more refined, polish themselves up and make an evening out of it in honor of the end of break.

It’s truly impressive how he can suggest a romantic date without ever using the word “date,” but Zay certainly isn’t complaining. It’s exactly the kind of thing he’s been thinking about for weeks, the sort of thing he wanted to ask but didn’t for risk of scaring him off.

Charlie seems to have gained the confidence over the summer to take some initiative. Once Zay agrees to the idea, he takes control, researching and throwing suggestions around until he lands on the brilliant thought that they should see a show together. They live in New York, after all, and dance is kind of their thing. Zay thinks about mentioning that he thought Manhattan was off limits, or that he likes the idea of them having “a thing,” but he opts to keep both thoughts to himself and just let Charlie roll. Zay does state that he’ll pay him back for his portion of the ticket fees, but when he texts him later to ask how much they cost to cover his half, Charlie conveniently changes the subject or dances around it until Zay forgets he asked. He never ends up paying him back, but he wonders if that’s what Charlie wanted.

Once everything is all ironed out and set, Charlie eagerly gives him all the details over the phone. The excitement is palpable in his voice. Zay realizes he doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound so genuinely enthusiastic.

Zay makes an effort to give him something worth being excited for. He spends an inordinate amount of time that Friday afternoon piecing together the right ensemble—going to a theater necessitates a certain level of dress, and he wants to meet that elevated bar while still offering a sense of his own style. He goes with the nicest button down he owns but pairs it with one of his bomber jackets to edge it up, as well as dark pants to adhere to the more formal expectation of a Saturday evening performance. Then he focuses on touching up his hair, grateful for the distraction as he runs out the clock before he needs to leave.

Aside from a text that morning to confirm they’re still on, he hasn’t heard from Charlie all day. He tries not to worry about it. He’d worry less if he was the one who had the tickets, that way at least if Charlie flakes, he could still enjoy a Broadway show on his dime.

His mom is sorting through some things for work when he descends the stairs, getting a good look at him. She smiles. “Look at you. You look sharp.”

“Thank you, I try.”

“These plans you’ve got tonight include dinner, right? Remember I’m going to be on call for the night shift, so I won’t be home until morning. And dad isn’t coming back from Portland until Sunday.”

“I know, I know. I ate before I got changed,” Zay assures her, slipping on his shoes.

Donna examines him a while longer, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. “You really do look _quite _nice for an evening with friends. Who are you going with again?”

He rolls his eyes. “A friend from school.”

“Yindra? Nigel? Or maybe Riley, I haven’t heard much about her this summer—”

“You don’t know him.”

“I don’t know him, and yet you’re dressing up like that?” Donna raises her eyebrows. “Must be some friend, then.”

Zay is working hard enough to keep everything casual for Charlie’s peace of mind, but he neglected to remember his mom’s inherently nosy nature. That is to say, nothing thrills her more than getting in on the business of her children. If he can help it, he better make sure she and Charlie never cross paths.

“It’s theater etiquette to dress nice, mom,” he says flatly.

Donna makes a face, taking a long sip of her coffee. Zay rolls his eyes again and grabs his keys off the rack by the door, his mom giving him one last goodbye. “Don’t forget to text me when you get to the theater!”

“Noted,” he confirms, escaping her playful interrogation and shutting the door behind him. He lets out an exhale, centering himself.

It’s going to be a good night. It’s going to go well. Once he’s with Charlie, everything will be worth the stress.

He drives into the city and uses his student ID to park on Triple A’s campus after hours, saving him the trouble of parking by the theater. The subway is relatively crowded given the evening weekend rush, but he blends right in amongst the swath of other New Yorkers. He wonders absentmindedly how Charlie is getting to the theater—its hard to imagine him on the subway, as clean and cautious as he is.

Zay arrives outside the theater about a half an hour before the show is set to start, other theater-goers already drifting in and out of the doors in their evening best. It’s exactly when he and Charlie agreed they’d meet up, but the latter is nowhere to be found. Zay debates going inside to look for him and figures he better stay where he is, just in case he misses him.

_That is, if he even shows up at all._

He tries to give Charlie the benefit of the doubt. First of all, he thinks he knows him well enough to know that if he were going to suddenly ditch, he’d send a heads up of some kind. Even if it’s vague and unhelpful, like a simple “I can’t,” Charlie is polite and socially anxious enough to give him _some _warning. Not to mention the longer they spent together, the less flaky and prone to flight Charlie seemed to be. This whole outing was his idea after all—if there were any time for him logically _not _to back out, this would be the time.

No matter what he says to calm his nerves, though, Zay can’t get the possibility out of his head. The likelihood that as the minutes tick by and the sun dips lower and lower behind the skyline of the city, he’s less likely to show up. That he’s going to be the absolute idiot dressed to impress with nobody to share it with, standing outside the Walter Kerr theater alone as the show goes on without him. A small part of him thinks he should’ve known better.

Then Charlie appears, emerging through the crowd like Moses parting the sea, and all of Zay’s anxieties fly out the window.

He looks good. Sure, Zay can admit that he always looks good to a degree, and he’s always been naturally cute, but tonight he looks _good_. He’s wearing a similar outfit to what he wore on the night of the Kossal audition—what Zay assumes must be a variation on his Sunday best—only there’s no tightly knotted tie strangling him into perfect order. The top couple buttons of his slate blue dress shirt are undone, and he’s rolled up the sleeves to his elbows to help stave off the lingering summer humidity. His hair is haphazardly combed away from his face the same it was the first time they went out, but now Zay is realizing how much it’s grown over the course of the summer. He can’t remember if it’s ever been this long in the time he’s known him (or at least, been conscious of him as more than a classmate in his periphery), well past his ears and threatening to brush his shoulders sometime soon with a little more time and freedom.

He likes it, though—he definitely likes it.

Charlie seems to be having a similar thought process of his own, slowing his pace as he approaches and takes him in. The smile on his lips is breathless, and it takes him a moment to form words. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Standing under the golden glow of the marquee, Zay is aware of just how green his eyes are. It makes words hard to remember for him too, but it doesn’t make him forget sarcasm. “So glad you could make it.”

Charlie grimaces. “Yeah, sorry I’m a few minutes late. My Uber driver dropped me off like two blocks away because traffic was a mess, but then of course I don’t know where I’m going—I can barely navigate my own neighborhood. I know I should’ve just taken the train, but I don’t know, it makes me nervous.” He sighs. “Sorry. I was going to text, but I got distracted trying to orient myself. You’re not mad, are you?”

Zay shrugs, deciding to omit his anxieties about his reliability. “Nah. I’m chill.”

“Oh, cool. Good.” Charlie’s smile widens, obviously relieved. He lets his gaze linger on him for another moment, clearing his throat. “You look great, by the way.”

“Thanks. Ditto,” Zay says, and he means it.

The longer he spends looking at him, the more the surrealism of it is starting to get to him. Charlie is really standing there in front of him, prepared for a night at the theater, and he’s there for _him. _He went to all this effort, navigated his way here in spite of nerves stemming from a multitude of different sources, just so he could come here and share this night with him. A month ago such a thing would’ve seemed highly improbable, to say nothing of a year ago. This time last year Zay was on his own, marooned by one bad relationship, and wouldn’t have given Charlie the time of day. Rightfully so, he felt, because he got the impression Charlie thought himself holier-than-thou (literally) anyway.

And here they are. Never has it been so nice to be wrong. This summer has been nothing but unexpected, but Zay decides sometimes the unexpected can turn out pretty damn good.

“So, you got the tickets?”

“Yep,” Charlie confirms, pulling them from his pocket. He holds them out so Zay can take one, exchanging a smile with him. He’s restless, but in a good way seemingly, eager for the night to really begin. “You ready?”

Zay nods, gesturing for Charlie to lead the way.

Their seats are up in the mezzanine, and they settle in with a few minutes to spare. The crowd of strangers offers a sense of privacy, more of that anonymity that has dominated the summer, so Charlie is able to relax pretty quickly. Or maybe he’s just getting used to it, being out and about with Zay, so his fight or flight instinct is less consuming than before. Either way, things feel comfortable, the two of them exchanging light chatter about the performers listed in the program and sharing background knowledge they have about the show. When the lights dim and the orchestra starts tuning, the universal signal for quiet and that the overture is impending, Zay reclines in his seat and allows himself to get lost in the rush of a good production. The only reminder that this evening performance is more meaningful than any other he might attend is the light pressure of Charlie’s forearm against his own while they share the arm rest.

It becomes truly impossible to forget about twenty minutes into the first act, when Charlie takes his hand.

At first, Zay doesn’t even notice it’s happening. It seems so out of the realm of possibility, so out of the question for Charlie, that he writes off the initial brush of his fingers against his skin as an accidental touch. But his fingertips linger, lightly dancing across the back of his hand, until he lets his palm come to rest on top. He doesn’t move again for a long stretch of time after that, making it clear it was a choice and no mistake.

Zay isn’t sure how to react. He’s not opposed to it by any means, and his heart is pounding harder in his chest again. But it’s another unexpected twist, a development he didn’t necessarily see coming. It’s not like they haven’t held hands at all in the last couple of months, but technically in public, and in such a casual, intent way? With no indication that he’s going to pull away any time soon?

He doesn’t make a big deal about it. He keeps his focus on the performance unfolding on the stage below, although the grin on his face has absolutely nothing to do with that. Rather than drawing attention to it, Zay signals that he’s more than happy with the touch by returning it, shifting his hand underneath Charlie’s so that they can link their fingers together.

Neither of them comment on it. They settle into enjoying the performance, allowing the casual intimacy to occur out of the spotlight.

They switch back to the usual mode of interaction as the lights come up for intermission, Charlie slipping from his grasp before the room is fully illuminated again as if he was never there. But Zay can still feel the warmth of his hand around his like a ghost.

“Pretty good so far,” Zay says. He turns to look at him, surprised to find that Charlie is already looking at him. As far as he can tell, it doesn’t seem like he just recently shifted his gaze to him either. “What did you think?”

Charlie blinks, like he’s coming out of a trance. “Huh?”

“About the show?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Great so far,” he agrees. But he’s still not really paying attention to the theater around them, or the stage. Zay thinks he catches him glance at his lips.

After a few more questions, though, he manages to get Charlie to come back down to Earth. They avidly discuss the performance thus far, and Zay remembers one of the reasons he gets along so well with him. It’s not as prevalent when they’re not in school, but Charlie shares his sensibilities and eye for the performing arts in terms of what’s worth appreciating. They highlight how impressive the costuming is in this production, how captivating the leads are, and of course, they can’t stop talking about the choreography.

The instant the lights go down for the second act, Charlie finds his hand again. There’s little to no hesitation this time around. Zay is sure the rest of show was equally as enjoyable as the first half, but all he can focus on is Charlie’s thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand.

* * *

It’s half past ten by the time they leave the theater, meandering their way through the lobby as well-dressed patrons flit past them with places to go and people to see. Neither of them are in any rush, searching for ways to draw out the evening as long as they possibly can even if it means walking at a snail’s pace back out onto the street.

Zay wishes Charlie was still holding his hand. He’d gotten so used to it during the show, it felt strange when he pulled away at the end. He wonders if that’s what it’ll feel like when summer comes to an end—that Charlie will be this missing comfort, something he’s grown so used to enjoying the presence of that it’ll feel wrong when he’s no longer there.

That being said, it took Charlie about two minutes after the lights came up to remember they were in public and that he should probably let go. That feels like a positive sign, a promising inconsistency of some kind, but Zay forces himself not to get too hopeful. He’s never been superstitious, so he’s not going to start looking for cosmic signs when they’ve never done him any favors in the past.

Much like his hand-hold, Charlie doesn’t seem ready to let go for the evening. Even when they emerge outside the theater and Zay thinks it would be time to say goodbye and go their separate ways, neither of them make any moves to do so. In fact, Charlie ends up drifting closer to him, standing just inches apart as they hover on the question of what to do next. He could chalk it up to avoiding getting in the way of others, but the way he keeps stealing glances at Zay situated so close in his proximity makes the reason feel less logical and more electric.

“Well, that was really fun,” Zay says, desperate to disrupt the inertia that has taken hold of them. Whether they end things here and now or go in an unexpected direction, he’d rather do that than stand here crackling with static between them. “Thanks for suggesting it and getting it all figured out and stuff.”

“Oh, yeah, of course.”

Another awkward beat. Zay wonders if he’s making up the tension that feels palpable between them, if it’s just him with this weird ache in his muscles as if he’s pulled taut like a rubber band. “You probably want to call your Uber now, it’ll take a hot minute for it to get here. Traffic, you know. Your parents are probably wondering where you are.”

“Um, actually, they aren’t expecting me for a while,” Charlie says. His voice is suddenly quieter. “When I left, they kind of joked about how they wouldn’t be waiting up for me, and I should enjoy my night. I think it was their way of granting me some late teenage freedom, or responsibility, or something…”

Well. That certainly changes things. “Oh.”

“Yeah…” Charlie lifts his eyes from the sidewalk to briefly meet his gaze, an expectant edge to them. Like he’s waiting for Zay to point the way, like he knows exactly what should happen next and he’s just waiting for the invitation.

Zay doesn’t see why he should be looked to as the expert, because he certainly wasn’t anticipating this turn of events. He thinks he understands what Charlie is getting at, what he’s interested in exploring without outright saying it, but he’s very reluctant to make assumptions. They’re hovering on dangerous territory now, toeing the line between the easy vibes of a no-expectations summer fling and something deeper and more complicated.

But he knows Charlie isn’t going to articulate things for himself, so he’ll just have to start working on improving his ability to translate. He just hopes that if he misinterprets, Charlie will at least have the courage to speak up and correct him before they make any mistakes both of them will end up regretting.

“My dad’s out of town and my mom is working a late shift,” he says casually, trying to come off as nonchalant as possible. He hopes the way his heart is hammering in his chest doesn’t show in his voice. “Do you maybe want to go to my house? We can just chill for a little while, if you don’t want to go home yet.”

Charlie’s eyes widen, just a bit, and Zay mentally kicks himself. He didn’t want to scare him off. He shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. A perfect night, a perfect final outing, and naturally he had to fuck it up—

“Okay,” Charlie says, surprising him. He clears his throat before he speaks again. “Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”

With the amount of times he’s been caught off-guard tonight, Zay thinks he might have whiplash when he wakes up in the morning. If he wakes up normally at all, and this doesn’t turn out to be some long, elaborate fantasy dream. “Alright, dope. We’ll just take the subway back to my car—I parked at Triple A.”

“Nice. Lead the way, then.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t get lost on the train.”

“Ha ha,” Charlie says mockingly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. But the teasing does its job, deflating some of the new tension that seems to be mounting between them. Charlie leans close so that he can elbow him in the ribs, and Zay grins more at the excuse for close contact than the playful gesture. “You think you’re so incredibly funny.”

Disbelief that things are going so well aside, good humor is the most prevalent thing about the journey out of the city back into Queens. There’s a subtle undercurrent of excitement keeping them both energized, a quiet motivation that keeps the engine of the evening running. The fact that it feels so easy is a blessing in disguise, making all the new potential Zay hadn’t accounted for less intimidating than it might be otherwise.

In truth, things felt like they were going a little _too _well, so it’s not all that shocking when Charlie suddenly seems to get cold feet halfway to his neighborhood. He grows uncharacteristically quiet—at least, in the context of the date thus far—and then sits up straight in the passenger seat.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” he says quickly. His tone is hollower than earlier. He tugs nervously at the seatbelt across his chest as if it’s choking him. “I don’t know what my parents meant when they said—if they knew—and you’ll have to drive me all the way back.”

“I don’t mind.”

“No, I shouldn’t—” Charlie stammers. He’s doing that baffling thing again, where it seems like he’s literally arguing with himself. Honestly, Zay acknowledges, he probably is. It’s a constant war in his head, and Zay isn’t naive enough to think that would just magically disappear for a night. “I’m sorry, this was stupid. I didn’t mean to make you—maybe we should just go back. You should just take me home—”

“Charlie,” Zay says calmly. His voice gets Charlie to shut up, looking at him and hanging on his every word. Like he’ll have all the answers. Zay knows he doesn’t, but he at least thinks he knows what really matters. “Do you _want _me to take you home?”

For whatever reason, the question trips him up. Charlie opens his mouth but nothing comes out, so he closes it a second later. Zay counts to ten in his head, tapping his finger on the steering wheel and preparing himself for the possibility that he’ll have to turn around. Whatever Charlie chooses, he’ll honor it. He just wants him to actually think about why he’s making the decision, if it’s really going to make him happy.

Finally, after a minute or so of silent deliberation, Charlie responds. “No…”

“No?”

He takes a deep breath. “No, I don’t want to go home yet.”

Zay nods, acknowledging his answer. Charlie takes another heavy breath, slowly easing back against the seat again and trying to fight off the nerves that suddenly captivated him. He knows it might only make things worse, but Zay is willing to take that risk as he reaches across the median to take Charlie’s hand. He gives it a squeeze, trying to make it clear that it’s okay, that there’s nothing to be stressed about. When they’re together, his choices are his choices, and Zay will always be a safe space for him to decide whatever he truly wants.

Charlie’s hand is stiff for a couple of minutes, but Zay feels his fingers relax as they drive on and the inner debate in his mind feels more settled. Then, eventually, his voice returns, resuming their conversational rapport.

* * *

Twenty minutes later they’re hopping out of the car, securely back at Zay’s house. Charlie takes his time taking it all in as he shuts the passenger side door and Zay jogs around to come join him on the curb. The cozy suburban quietude, houses of modest size and average income populating the street. Not quite like his wealthy block on the upper East Side, and nothing like the crowded, hectic energy of Manhattan.

Zay starts backing towards his yard, jerking his head to the right. “Mine’s this one.”

Charlie cautiously follows Zay up the sidewalk, eyes trained on the brick-sided townhouse he calls home. It occurs to Zay that this is the first time Charlie has ever been to his place—they’ve driven past it a couple of times, through the neighborhood when they were in the area, but never has he gotten out of the car or seen the inside. Whereas it all appears pretty common and unimpressive to Zay, for Charlie it’s stepping into a new world. Adding another layer of depth to his understanding of Zay Babineaux, if he decides that’s knowledge he wants to have.

Zay fiddles with his lanyard while Charlie catches up to him and joins him on the stoop. He loses the house key as soon as he finds it because Charlie distracts him, facing him and stepping closer. Zay lifts his head and locks eyes with him, curiosity piqued, and Charlie only waits a second before leaning in and giving him a peck.

It’s a welcome gesture, but it’s also slightly off. Stilted, a bit unnatural, like he’s testing the waters with it rather than doing it with purpose. It’s some sort of subconscious expectation he’s trying against reality, that romantic notion of walking your partner to the door and giving them a kiss goodnight. One of those things Charlie likely never thought he would get to do, at least not with someone he actually liked.

Zay allows it, and doesn’t complain at all when Charlie seems to conclude that it wasn’t quite right and glances at him to request another attempt. He simply nods, and this time Charlie approaches it with a bit more grace and pointedly less formality. This time, he takes a longer moment before he leans in, touching Zay’s elbow in a feather light grip before pressing his lips against his.

Gentle. Thoughtful. Just the right amount of hesitation to pull away. If it were a traditional goodnight kiss, the way Charlie has always pictured them in his head, then Zay would consider it very effective.

Except it’s not goodnight. Not yet. Zay stays close, keeping his voice at a murmur. “Do you want to actually come in?”

Truthfully, it seems like Charlie forgot that was part of the plan. He blinks, catching up to reality. “Oh. Yes. Yeah.”

Zay can’t help but smile. He gives him a playful elbow nudge, shifting his attention back to his keys and unlocking the door.

The house is unusually quiet when they step inside, all of the ruckus and life that normally occupies it when the Babineaux family is present muted in their absence. Zay flips on the light and makes sure Charlie makes it all the way inside, shutting the door behind them. He shows Charlie where he can take off his shoes and is pleased when he does without pause, though it’s partially because he’s so distracted by looking around. It’s like he’s silently committing every single inch of it to memory, absorbing all the tiny details with earnest.

Zay didn’t consider that his home would be at all interesting, but Charlie’s apparent fascination has him offering up a tour. “You want me to show you around?”

Charlie’s expression brightens. “Please.”

So he gives him the lowdown, weaving their way around the first floor. He could probably buzz through it in minutes since its so familiar to him, but Charlie takes his sweet time, meandering through each of the rooms at a snail’s pace. Zay can’t tell if he’s genuinely that interested in the mundane, simple setting that acts as the backdrop for so much of his life or if the slow moving is prompted more by reservation, delaying the potential progressions of their night. Charlie wants to be there, Zay believes, but there will always be parts of him pulling him backwards.

Two steps forward, one step back. As long as the movement is still forward, then Zay figures a little patience won’t kill either of them.

Besides, Zay thinks its much more likely a combination of both factors. The way Charlie is inspecting each family picture and old childhood artwork with a delicate smile, the kind where one corner of his mouth turns up into this damningly charming lopsided beam, he must be getting something good out of the detour.

He’s gone pretty quiet though, lost in thought, so Zay works to fill the silence. He introduces each room as they enter it, finding weird stories or tiny anecdotes to share that keep the lack of conversation from feeling intrusive. Charlie seems content to listen to him, grinning at him when he says something snarky and asking the occasional question about where a photograph was taken or how often Zay spends time in the room they’re currently occupying. He only offers input of his own when they get to the dining room, Zay’s discussion of how his family tries to eat dinner together at least once a week since all their schedules are so all over the place between rehearsals and night shifts and social events triggering some instinctive share button in his brain.

“My family eats dinner together every night. Well, nearly every night. It’s not like a hard and fast rule, but mom and dad get disappointed if you’re not there. Not because they’re mad, you know, just because they want us all there. It’s the only time we really have together, aside from church, and that’s not really _our _time.” Charlie stares at the grain in the dining table, crossing his arms. The words are coming out fast and breathless, like confessional, but Zay doesn’t think the nerves have anything to do with his family dinners. “Makes rehearsals complicated sometimes. You know, when they end late, like eight or nine. Mom acts like she doesn’t mind, because she knows it’s important to me, but I know it upsets her. Dress rehearsal weeks are always awkward because of that.

“I feel bad, missing it. I know it sounds lame, and for a while I thought it was, too, but then when my sister went to college and my other sister left, I got it. I get why it’s so important to them. In the moment it doesn’t seem like much, all cramped together at the table and trying not to talk over each other and with Rosie kicking at me just because she can. But that’s how I remember them, you know? When I think about Bridgette, I think about her next to me at the dinner table. The things we say don’t really mean much, later, but I remember that we were there. Together.”

Charlie doesn’t realize he’s been talking so much until he peters out, glancing up to meet Zay’s eyes and finding him staring at him. Zay doesn’t mean to, but once Charlie started speaking he found he couldn’t look away. Considering how good of friends they are and how comfortable they’ve managed to become with one another, Zay forgets how soft-spoken he actually is. An information dump like that is rare, not earned lightly he knows, especially since Charlie feels as though no one really knows him.

And damn, he could get used to the sound of his voice. His pleasant tenor, occasionally cracked with bits of emotion—nerves, excitement, humor, relief. Whatever he’s saying, no matter how important it is, Zay wants to listen to him talk forever.

“Sorry. You didn’t ask. Don’t know…” Charlie lets out a huff of a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Don’t know where that came from. Or what I was trying to explain, exactly.”

Zay shrugs. Doesn’t matter. But he shares what he got from it loud and clear. “You love them.”

Charlie hesitates, letting that sink in. The delicate smile returns, this time tinted with gratitude. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

They round out their journey in the kitchen, where Zay insists on getting Charlie a glass of water. He claims he’s fine and he doesn’t need to go to the trouble, but Zay knows being anxious can dry you out. Sometimes, all it takes to settle his nerves before an audition or when he’s gearing up for a major performance is to down a bottle of water, so he hopes he can provide him the same relief. While he waits, Charlie examines the miscellany tacked to the refrigerator with magnets. He’s smirking at a test pinned up with a small amount of pride—the same test that Charlie helped tutor him to prepare for back last fall. On top of it, a sticky note has been smacked with a jeering comment in Jada’s curly handwriting.

_Congrats, booger! No dance school drop out in this mf house!_

Charlie only tears his gaze away from it when Zay hands him the glass, turning his amused smile to him and giving him a grateful nod. “Thanks. Your mom didn’t write that, did she?”

“The note? No. That was my sister, Jada. She’s as charming as the sticky note would lead you to believe,” he explains with an eye roll.

Charlie continues smiling, taking a long drink of the water. “I think it’s funny. Me and my sisters talk to each other like that sometimes, but we’d never write it down where my mom could see. Not to mention we’d never use some of those words.”

Zay knows he means the abbreviation of “mf,” but he can’t pass up the joke. “What, booger? Damn, I had no idea Catholicism was _that _strict…”

“Ugh,” he says, hiding behind his water.

“Or that booger was that bad. Gasp. _Charlie_. You’re not telling me I’ve been saying _sinful _words my whole life? That Jada and I would refer to each other with such hateful, reprehensible unholy language.” Charlie glares at him while he gulps down the rest of the water, his pointed eye contact answer enough. _Ha ha. Very funny. _“That’s why we sneeze, isn’t it? It’s God helping us get all of the sin out.”

All the sudden, Charlie chokes, breaking his unimpressed streak and coughing up water all over the floor. Zay bursts into laughter, practically doubling over as Charlie does the same, only from coughing rather than laughing. Well, actually it’s both, the reason for his gagging the fact that it’s not easy to swallow water when you’re cracking up.

Zay goes to grab a paper towel, sliding back over and handing it to Charlie. He takes it, pouting at him as he continues to retch. “I hate you,” he whines.

“_You_ hate _me_? You’re the one who just spat all over my floor.”

“Yes, well, thankfully that’s not a mortal sin. Just not very polite.” Zay grins wider, glad to see him get in on the joke. It assures him that he’s not actually upset by him poking fun. Charlie grimaces down at his feet. “Do you have another towel? I can clean this up.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’ll dry.”

Zay takes the glass from him and drops it in the sink, coming back to stand with him by the counter. He glances towards the entryway, Charlie eyeing the stairs. In terms of touring the house, they’ve basically run out of other places to explore, but Zay can tell there’s a bit of apprehension in his expression.

“You wanna go to my room?”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, less hesitant than Zay expected.

He takes it as a good sign. Apprehension is there, but it’s not stronger than the excitement. As long as that remains the case, then Zay figures they’ll be okay.

He leads the way up the stairs, Charlie lagging a bit behind to get a good look at the pictures hanging on the walls as they go. But he stops completely when they pass Jada’s room, something about it causing him to pause in the middle of the hallway. Her room is dark since she’s back at college for fall semester but her door remains open, and for whatever reason it seems to totally perplex Charlie.

Zay doubles back so he doesn’t leave him too far behind.“I’m at the end of the hall.”

“She just left her door open like that?” Charlie asks.

Zay glances towards the darkened doorway, shrugging. “Not like she’s hiding anything. And she’s only downtown at the fashion institute, so she comes back fairly frequently. Only favor it would be doing us is saving us from having to see what a mess she leaves it.”

Charlie scoffs, like half a laugh, but it’s hollow. Nothing like the laughter in the kitchen. Zay wants to ask him about it, but he decides tonight isn’t the time. Not when there’s plenty of other conflicting emotions buzzing in his head already.

He takes his hand instead, nudging him out of the trance and guiding him the rest of the way down the hall. Charlie lets him, leaving whatever heaviness that descended upon him behind.

Zay disconnects their hands as he pushes his door fully open, moving across the space swiftly to turn on the lights. Charlie enters with much more trepidation, like crossing the threshold alone might curse him. But his curiosity wins out, eyes lighting up in a mixture of interest and awe as he takes in his bedroom. Now that he’s standing in it, knowing it’s being analyzed, Zay feels subconscious about the way he inhabits the space—he should’ve tidied up more, especially after picking on his sister. It’s probably dingy compared to Charlie’s elegant house on the East Side. He probably could’ve found ways to make it look a little cooler. His wall art of carefully arranged CD album cases suddenly feels cheap and unoriginal, and the other posters on the wall might be saying too much for him.

He notices Charlie’s eyes fall on the _Step Up _poster he has stuck to the back of his closet door, smile blooming on his face. Zay clears his throat, passing him to shut the door behind him and give them full privacy. “It’s not much. I mean, I haven’t gotten new posters or anything in a while—”

“It’s awesome,” Charlie says enthusiastically. He takes one more spin around the room, his gaze finally landing back on him. Lopsided smile trained right on him and at full power. “It’s you. It feels exactly like you.”

Zay hopes that’s a good thing. He doesn’t spend much time thinking about it, since now that Charlie is looking at him again he can’t focus on anything else. Now that there’s nothing else to look at, and there’s nothing else to hide behind.

Some of that tension from outside the theater returns and settles between them. Charlie swallows.

This is where he has to be the confident one, Zay knows. He may not feel like an expert on relationships in any capacity—physical, emotional, or otherwise—and his personal track record isn’t shining. But Charlie is truly stumbling through the dark, and he needs him to light the way. He has to come off like he knows what he’s doing, that one of them is sure enough of how this could go, or else Zay is positive whatever their thing is isn’t going to even get off the ground.

So he plays it cool, stepping away from the door. “You wanna listen to some music?”

“Sure,” Charlie agrees. Zay notices the tremor in his voice, but he chooses not to comment it, which he seems grateful for. He takes the opportunity to turn away from him, inspecting the wall of music as an alternative.

Zay focuses on his own nerves while he queues up the music, knowing exactly which playlist to put on. He doesn’t need to tell Charlie that he has more than one playlist dedicated to him in his selection already—he doesn’t need him getting the wrong idea after all. Playlists don’t mean anything, really, just that the subject that inspired them is captivating in _some _way.

Deep, calming breath. In and out through the nose, filling the diaphragm and grounding him to reality. Just like right before the curtain rises.

He isn’t falling in love with Charlie Gardner.

As the slow-groove beats of Frank Ocean float into the room, Zay shifts his attention back to Charlie. He’s still looking at the CDs, tensing up a bit when he senses him coming over to join him. Like he hit a button, the proximity causes him to start rambling again, the anxious crack popping up every few words.

“This is really cool, dude. I don’t have anything like this in my room. Honestly, I’m not even sure where I’d get the materials for it—do you go find the CDs just around, or do you have to order them? Do people even sell CDs anymore? But that’s not really the issue with me. The thing is, I can’t think of what CDs I like enough to even put up there on my wall like that.”

“Charlie.”

“Like you, you’ve got all these artists you clearly like. And they seem like you, too, like I look at this wall and I’m like, oh yeah, this is Zay. This _screams _Zay. It’s like I’m looking at a portrait of you, only it’s like one of those pictures where far away it’s one thing, but then you get closer and you realize it’s a bunch of tiny pictures making up the bigger one. I guess people are kind of like that, huh? All of these smaller details creating this big picture of a person.”

Zay smiles. He doesn’t want him to be nervous, but the way he word vomits is strangely cute. “Charlie…”

“But then, it’s weird, because I guess it’s like art in another way, too. That two people can look at a piece of art and see completely different things, take away entirely different messages from it. People are like that, too. Like, if I tried to make this wall for myself, I don’t think what I would put up—if I could even think of anything—would be anything like what other people would expect me to put up. Does that make sense? Cause they’re looking at me and only seeing certain details, so the bigger picture isn’t what it actually is. Like, I bet most people would expect me to put like, choral hymns or whatever—”

“_Charlie,_” Zay repeats softly, touching his arm.

At the touch Charlie immediately quiets, ramble grinding to a halt. He watches Zay’s fingers as they slip down to take his hand, lightly pulling him in his direction so he’ll face him. He wants to assure him that nothing about this needs to be intimidating—no expectations. It’s just the two of them, their world, their rules.

“So…” Charlie takes a shaky breath, keeping his eyes trained down on their hands. “I guess this is where something is supposed to happen. Right?”

Zay shrugs. “Not necessarily. Not if you don’t want it to.”

Charlie meets his eyes, uncertain. It feels like they’re on the precipice of something, like they’re at the cliff’s edge and all there is left to do is make one final choice. Back off and head back to safety of the higher ground, where everything is clear and familiar and safe… or follow the allure of the fall, leap off the cliff side and into the darkness where nothing is guaranteed. No certainty that it won’t just be a rocky end, but also the chance that whatever is just out of view is the greatest sight they’ll ever see.

Zay ventures a different touch, bringing a hand up to cup Charlie’s face. He brushes a thumb against his cheek, tracing his freckles. Charlie closes his eyes, leaning into the caress and letting out an exhale. Allowing his touch, for just a moment, to be the only thing that matters. “It’s like we agreed when all this started. No pressure, no expectations. This can be whatever you want.”

When Charlie opens his eyes to meet his, Zay is enchanted by how expressive they are. They’re trusting and trepidatious all at once, translating the torn nature of his emotional state. He wishes he could make it clear, could make Charlie understand for certain that he poses no threat to him. That if anything, if he could have it his way, he would be doing everything in his power to make him feel good. Safe. Better.

But it doesn’t matter what he prefers—not if it doesn’t line up with Charlie. So he asks him again, not sure if he’s ready for the truth but needing to hear it anyway, knowing it’s the only question that actually matters.

“What do you want, Charlie?”

Charlie holds his gaze, hanging on the question, obviously fighting the last bloody battle in his war-torn head. Zay wonders how often he’s been asked that—if anyone ever has.

Regardless of what the answer might be, Zay tries to convince himself that he doesn’t care. Whatever happens, it won’t affect him that much. He might be a bit disappointed, because if he’s being honest, he’d like to kiss him—God, he really fucking wants to kiss him—but he’ll survive if he can’t. It’s not the end of the world. It was just a summer thing. He doesn’t care about what happens next _really_, he isn’t invested, he isn’t falling…

Zay feels Charlie’s hands on him, tentatively touching his hips, and the mental train crashes. It’s a moment suspended in time, everything spectacularly vivid—Charlie’s freckles under his thumb, the way he licks his lips, the instant the conflicted longing in his green eyes shifts to something decisive. Then Charlie kisses him, gentle but with intent, the _purpose _Zay felt on the night of the Kossal audition and hasn’t stopped thinking about since, and all of the tension shatters.

Man, who is he kidding? He is _so _into Charlie Gardner. They tumble off the cliff side together, definitely falling, cascading head first into the dark.

Though he’s the one with more experience, Zay doesn’t really have to do much teaching. Charlie needs him to be there to kiss, to have someone to share it with, but he does a lot of the experimenting and learning on his own. It happens in the same pattern he’s been demonstrating all night—a cautious, explorative move to try things out, to see how it feels and find his footing, then the same thing again with less hesitation and more decisive than the first. A nudge at the jacket on Zay’s shoulders, then a concerted effort to push it off and down his arms when he decides he wants it off. A venture into a different kind of kiss, lips parted slightly, then braving tongue when he decides he wants something deeper. Something more.

As Charlie becomes comfortable with it and Zay becomes familiar with him, they find their groove. They’ve always been good at matching each other’s rhythm.

His purpose, Zay determines, is to be the safe space to discover all these things. He’s getting plenty out of it for himself, but what he wants is to make sure Charlie knows what they’re doing is okay. For them, and for whatever higher power that might be casting judgment. He finds ways to signal that he’s into it in spite of the sporadic hesitation, that he’s right there with him—bringing his other hand up to hold his face and pulling him closer, nudging their foreheads together when Charlie has to catch his breath, matching his enthusiasm and then some. But more than that, he encourages communication, not wanting to risk a mistake or push too far that ruins everything.

_Is this okay? Can I do this? Are you good?_

Untucking shirts. Fingers weaving through hair. Moving to the bed for a place to settle, a soft place to land after cascading through the dark. Undoing one button, then another. Nervous laughter, cutting through the heat, following a sound he didn’t realize he could make. Breathless smiles, oxygen a long gone necessity, grinning despite mouths being otherwise preoccupied.

_Yeah. Yes. Better than ever._

Even with the excitement and the adrenaline and the intensity, none of it feels frantic. Zay’s heart is pounding, but it’s not with the same rushed chaos he felt on audition night. The way they’re handling each other this time is unhurried, thoughtful, really taking the time to explore with a marked tenderness. He’s not sure how long they stay tangled up, but he’s positive he could never get sick of it. With Charlie’s hands on him and his hair between his fingers and his warmth underneath him, he bets he could stay there crafting kisses into him forever.

Unfortunately, they have to resurface eventually. Charlie accepts another long kiss from him and sighs into his mouth—one the best things Zay has ever experienced in his short life, for the record—before he has to break. Needing oxygen despite his past romantic dismissals of it, especially when the last handful of minutes seems to catch up to him. He slouches back against the pillows and tries to catch his breath, gently tugging Zay along with him and keeping his forehead pressed against his, like he needs the touch to survive more than fresh air. His breath is hot on Zay’s cheeks, hand restlessly sliding up his neck to caress the curve of his jaw.

Charlie’s whole existence revolves around being perfect, presenting as this ideal, inoffensive model, but Zay doesn’t think he’s ever looked more holy than in this moment. A little disheveled, flushed and out of his element, but so wonderfully _alive_.

Charlie lets his hand drift down to Zay’s torso, swallowing. He fiddles with one of the buttons on his shirt, half undone, but doesn’t move to undress him any further. “So…”

Zay isn’t sure what he could possibly say when he feels like he has no words, like Charlie stole them right off the tip of his tongue, though the small part of him that’s still waiting for a rejection stings preemptively. Charlie lets his gaze leisurely drift from his chest to meet his eyes again, holding eye contact for a long moment before he finishes his thought.

“What did you think of the show?”

Zay can’t help but laugh, Charlie breaking into a fond grin. Not at all what he was expecting. As far as he can tell, Zay is going to have to get used to unpredictable when it comes to him.

But the question seems genuine, like he really wants to know, so Zay talks about the show. He settles down next to Charlie and works through the fog in his brain to remember earlier in the evening, digging through much more alluring recent memories to find his opinions. They discuss it in gentle murmurs, easy and comfortable, only raising their voices to briefly argue about whether or not the supporting actor was unforgivably off-pitch (Charlie argues maybe he was having an off night and he tried his best; Zay asserts that there’s no room for off nights on Broadway). Otherwise Charlie doesn’t have many dissenting opinions, seemingly more than content to listen to Zay go on and on while his face is so close and voice is so soft and he can let his fingers roam anywhere he wants—Zay’s collarbone, his cheek, his stomach half-hidden under his tousled dress shirt. All the things that once seemed so forbidden, tantalizingly out of reach, now his to admire all he wants.

It’s not too long before he kisses him again, though, obviously intent to take advantage of the freedom to do that all he wants as well. The second time he scoots closer to bring their lips together is far less hesitant than an hour ago, already tinged with growing familiarity and a hint of restlessness. Zay certainly isn’t going to complain, taking his face in his hands and pulling him in his direction.

Charlie’s focus seems to be memorization, learning every movement and beat and inch of him and how they fit together—a whole new kind of pas de deux. He relaxes half on top of Zay and sets to exploring, not in any rush, and Zay happily lets him, reciprocating and enjoying every indulgent kiss. They’re slow, drawn out, each one lingering and blending into the next like watercolors on canvas.

Charlie said humans are like art, strokes of personality and history and perspective creating a greater picture, and Zay thinks he must be right. Zay sees the work of art Charlie encompasses, from the small individual colors and details to the full captivating portrait. He sees _him_. And when they’re together—bodies pressed against each other, the taste of him lingering in his mouth, hands tangled in his hair (yes, Zay has determined he _definitely _likes the hair)—that’s art worthy of acclaim. That’s worth revering, the kind they’d line up for blocks to behold, spend millions to own, hang in the Louvre amongst the greats.

Together, he and Charlie, they’re a masterpiece.

What he learns about Charlie is that with him, time is fleeting. Before he thought it was because their relationship felt fleeting, temporary, something that was going to fizzle out before he could blink, but now he recognizes that time itself is what slips away too fast. They spend the better part of an hour intertwined, yet it feels like nothing, and Zay knows he could stay there an hour more. But it was late when they got to his house, and even though Charlie’s parents have granted him a seemingly heaven-sent pass of liberty for the night, he doubts they want to push that line too far. The less questions the better, and he doesn’t want anything to cause Charlie to regret this experience later.

So although it takes every ounce of willpower he has, Zay pulls back first. He sits up on his elbow where they rolled over to a bit ago, catching his breath. “It’s getting pretty late. How late do you think you can push it?”

Charlie shrugs, still fixated on him. He doesn’t bother to look at the time. “I think we could go a little longer.”

“You don’t even know what time it is.”

“We could go a little longer,” he repeats absentmindedly. He reaches for Zay again, caressing his cheeks and pulling him back towards him. “Five more minutes.”

Zay can’t help but laugh. “Dude, we’ve got to get you home…”

“Just five more minutes,” Charlie insists, mirroring his grin as he locks their lips together again.

Five minutes becomes ten, then twenty, then thirty, Zay breaking each time to remind him and Charlie blissfully declaring another few wouldn’t be reprehensible. It’s an ironic role reversal, he has to think, as if kissing him has fried Charlie’s systems and damaged his anxiety receptors. It’s quarter til two in the morning when they finally creep down the stairs and back out to Zay’s car to drive back to the city, the Babineaux home returning to its plaintive, quiet stillness. As if they were never there.

Despite the late hour, Charlie is wired with energy. He carries a majority of the conversation, a marked change from when summer began. He also apologizes more than once for the fact that Zay has to drive him all the way back, and at such a late hour, and that someday he’ll make it up to him. He think his parents will be getting him a car pretty soon—Agatha got one her senior year, but he’s always gotten things a little bit earlier since he’s the boy—and he’ll have to get over his nerves about getting behind the wheel, but then he can be the one chauffeuring them around for a change. What his parents don’t know about what he’s doing with his vehicle won’t hurt them.

“Promise. I promise that when I’ve got wheels, you’ll be the first one to ride shotgun. Wherever you want,” Charlie declares, smile bright and eyes twinkling in the reflection of the road lights as he watches the world through the dashboard window. Zay doesn’t say it, but he takes the promise of future outings with him beyond this summer and locks it away deep in his heart.

While lots of things have changed, certain rules remain upheld. As they get to Charlie’s neighborhood, he insists that Zay drop him off at the end of the block, a safe distance from his house. It’s a sharp reminder of how things really are, the world they actually live in rather than whatever nirvana they inhabited in his room, but Zay finds he’s more indignant on Charlie’s behalf than his own. He sort of gets why he has this weird rule during the day—well, he doesn’t really _get _it, but he empathizes—but in the middle of the night when there’s nothing to see and no one around to see it, it just seems stupid and a bit unsafe. But Charlie is adamant, so Zay argues him on it until the moment he reaches the spot he normally parks.

“Charlie, it’s three in the morning. Why the hell would I let you walk all the way down the block when—”

He gets his answer quick enough, Charlie unbuckling his seatbelt and leaning across the median to steal another kiss from him. It’s akin to the way they’ve been all night, deep and meaningful, nothing like the swift pecks on the cheek he sparingly gave him when he hopped out of the car before and exactly the sort of thing he wouldn’t want to risk doing right in front of his good Christian home. As if now that they’ve broken the barrier, crossed that boundary on their own terms, he just can’t help himself.

“Thanks for the ride,” Charlie exhales, only pausing a moment before going in for another one. “Thanks.” He accepts a couple more, Zay more than happy to give them, both of them absorbing enough to tide them over until next time.

Finally Charlie groans, forcing himself to open the car door and lean away.

“I have to get out of this car, or I’m never going to leave.” He starts out of the passenger seat, glances back in Zay’s direction, and double backs to give him one last goodbye peck like usual for good measure—though this one lands on the corner of his mouth rather than his cheek. Then he smiles, genuine and fond, as he climbs out of the vehicle. “Text me when you get home. I’m not gonna be able to fall asleep until you do.”

“Will do,” Zay assures him. “Night, Charlie.”

Charlie’s smile widens, bashful flush in his cheeks illuminated by the glow of the headlights. He reluctantly closes the passenger door and turns to jog back towards his house. It takes less time than usual with his heightened energy propelling him. Zay watches faithfully until Charlie makes it inside, casting a wistful look back at him before he disappears through his front door.

It isn’t until he’s back on the road to Queens for the final time that night that everything seems to hit Zay all at once. He realizes the reason he felt so desperate to indulge in those final stolen kisses, the ones meant to tide them over until next time, is because he doesn’t know if there will _be_ a next time. He realizes that what he’s been telling himself all summer are lies, that he _does_ care what happens between them, that he’s not at all detached. Charlie is unexpected, unpredictable in the most unexpected way, and he is much, _much_ more than a summer fling. If they’re doing exercises in what they want, then Zay’s answer is damningly simple.

He wants Charlie. He wants all of him, all of the time, and everything that encompasses. He knows it doesn’t matter unless their desires align, and he’s never been prone to prayer, but now he finds himself wishing for a miracle. For the chance that this could be more than a brief affair, that they can remain a masterpiece. For the impossible hope that in spite of all the things that divide them, Charlie will want him too, enough to confront all of the inevitable bullshit that comes with it.

Zay wants to be with Charlie Gardner. And if he’s not careful, then he may damn well fall in love with him.


	13. the napkin ( charlie )

In a miraculous twist of fate, Charlie survives the summer.

The difference between how he feels on the last week of break and how he was sure he was going to wither away just months before is stark. He’s sleeping better, he gets his energy back. While he thought the ache in his shoulder blades from anxiety would get worse after everything he’s done, it actually has receded, only tapping at him now and then and particularly in the presence of his mother. But she seems pleased with him, too—although she comments on how he forget to get his haircut in August like he planned, overall she claims he has never looked better. Markedly less lethargic than when he was sick at the end of the school year, color back in his cheeks, a light smile seemingly always lingering on his lips like a ghost.

Eleanor likes this Charlie, she says. They all do, happy that their perfect, charming man of the house is back in peak shape.

If only they knew why.

When Charlie thinks of Zay and the impact he’s had on him this summer, the only thing that comes to mind is divine intervention. He would hate that, of course, the implication that faith is responsible, but Charlie can’t shake the feeling that it’s true. Maybe it’s not God, though it itches to even consider the notion—he might be a sinner, but he’s not denouncing any time soon. Maybe it’s fate, or some cosmic string, or the work of one of the many deities that other people have worshipped for millennia. But somehow, they were pulled together. Zay swooping into his life and picking him up from where he’d fallen, perhaps for good, and all of the mistakes and hasty choices and sleepless nights that led up to it, happened for a reason.

Zay would probably say he’s just being a hopeless romantic. Charlie concedes maybe he is, but that doesn’t make it any less honest. Like any other form of faith, his unwavering belief in it is what makes it truth.

Then again, he wasn’t always so certain. When their summer together started and Charlie decided to tread the waters, bit by bit, basically every single week he questioned whether or not everything would be worth it. Was the indescribable pull he felt towards Zay valid, worth pursuing, or was it just a dangerous game to play where he knew he would inevitably get hurt? Every time they went out and both of them agreed they’d like to do it again—as soon as possible, in Charlie’s case—how great was the likelihood that Zay would turn around and take it back? That he’d remember how lame Charlie is, how absolutely lost and behind and unpredictable he is, and it’s just not worth his damn time? Or, most hauntingly, as this is what really kept him up at night, was his uncertainty destined to be his own demise? Would Charlie’s own hesitation and confusion and senseless fear overpower the thrill and allure and comfort of Zay Babineaux, and everything forbidden and unknown that comes with him?

Strangely, gratefully, none of the above happened. Every outing with Zay promised more in the future, and met those promises with grace, and before Charlie knew it he had fallen completely down the rabbit hole. And though it may have sealed his own fate, he doesn’t feel at all inclined to make any effort to climb his way out.

Then, they went to the show, and everything locked into place.

As it turns out, the faux religion of Zay Babineaux is a lot like every other religion Charlie is familiar with. It’s built on commandments—thou shalt not let fear control you, thou shalt stand up for yourself, thou shalt feel like yourself (even if prior to practice, he never felt like he knew what that meant). It offers all of the things you most need, that are often so hard to give—understanding, compassion, forgiveness. It contains sacred rituals—getting picked up and dropped off one block from his house, hushed phone calls out on the balcony when he’s never much liked talking on the phone, tentative brushes of hands that become decisive handholds. It encourages personal reflection—_are you okay? Is this good? What do you _want_, Charlie_? And above all, it provides belonging and the promise that something greater lies beyond for those most devout to the practice—a sense of peace, divine protection, a connection to the most beautiful and holy things and a nirvana unlike anything in the mortal world.

If Charlie had a conversion moment, as most religions do, then he knows the other night was it. Special dress, a necessary moment of doubt before committing to the belief. And then everything that happened next, from the moment Zay let him into his most private space to the instant he dropped him back off on the corner, was as blessed as he thinks one man could actually be. Something inside him is awake now, breathing life back into him, and there’s only one possible cause.

Before that night, Charlie considered the night of the Kossal audition, fleeting and frenzied as it was, the best night of his life. Now, after an entire summer of Zay, it doesn’t even come close. How he felt so close to Zay, intertwined and hyperaware and unequivocally _free_, is as good as he thinks it’s ever going to get. He’s seen the other side, the promised land, and now he’s never going back.

God, God, _God_.

Interestingly enough, the faith seems to give him clarity, too. He only sits on the memories of it for a day before he decides he needs to do something, has to find a way to guarantee this opportunity he’s been gifted doesn’t drift away. Zay has been gracious beyond belief, guiding him and granting him patience and letting him find his way, but now he has to give him something in return. He has to make it clear that he believes in this, that he wants more, even if he can’t find the words to say so when he runs through it in his head.

For someone purportedly so perfect, Charlie has tripped over just about every crack in the path to where he is now. This time, he can’t afford to slip up. He can’t afford to lose him.

So he asks Zay if they can meet up again, this weekend, much sooner than usual. Typically they have a handful of days in between outings, to stave of suspicion and to keep things a semblance of casual. This doesn’t forbid an occasional call while they wait (some of Charlie’s favorite surprises of the summer, both when Zay calls or when he discovers the courage to call him), but it does make the request to get together so soon feel unprecedented. Still, he knows he doesn’t want to have this conversation over the phone, and he doesn’t want to wait any longer. He’s waited long enough, for too many reasons to count.

Zay agrees, though with a bit of confusion, and they make all the necessary arrangements. Monday afternoon, the last one of the summer, brunch at the Queens diner. Charlie claims he’ll just ride share there, as he feels guilty about how much back and forth Zay has had to do on his behalf. Not to mention the moment he gets in the car he might just spill his guts all over the dashboard before they even get the chance to say hello, and that’s not how Charlie wants things to go. No, he needs the time to prepare on his own, so that absolutely nothing can go wrong, so he lets Zay save gas money and maneuvers getting there on his own.

He basically tunes out the rest of the weekend, hiding in his room and pacing the floor as he tries to put together exactly what he wants to say. If there even is a way to say it—how is he supposed to articulate how much Zay means to him when he can barely comprehend it himself? There’s no gospel for him to recite, no holy book for him to pull from that lays it out for him. There’s just him, ordinary Charlie Gardner, saddled with the impossible task of explaining religion. How do you explain faith to someone who has never needed it?

And, even more challenging, how do you describe God to God himself?

It’s all moot anyway, as Charlie knows damn well he can’t use religious metaphors with Zay. It makes sense to him in his screwed up head, helps him make sense of all the… _everything_ he’s been feeling since the spring, but he knows it sounds melodramatic. Not to mention he’s positive that if he called Zay god-like, despite the fact that he has made such jokes himself, he would lose his shit over how ridiculous it is. And maybe sometimes that’s a good thing, a little laughter to cut through the muchness of it all, but not this moment. This moment, Charlie wants to be important, and there’s never levity in life-altering confessions. He wants it to be perfect.

That’s why he’s still running through it on the drive over to Queens come Monday afternoon, his driver paying him the courtesy of ignoring him as he whispers to himself in the backseat. He tries to practice the words he scrounged up over the weekend, reciting the points like a monologue for class. _Here’s why we’re good together. Here’s why I think you should give me a chance. Here’s how I’m going to change, to make all of this worth it, even if it kills me. _Yet every time he stumbles somewhere, caught on his own words, frustrated with how they’re not right. His mind is like a slate board, one he keeps erasing and rewriting until the whole thing is covered with chalk dust and basically useless.

In some strange way, it’s actually a relief when he’s dropped off outside the diner and there’s nowhere left to run. If he gets it over with, throws the words out there even if they’re nonsense, then at least he’ll be free of the weight of them.

Zay isn’t there when he arrives, so Charlie catches the attention of the familiar waitress, Maddi, to help him get a table. Then he orders a water, just for something to focus on, the ice slowly melting and condensation dripping down the glass. He alternates between the water slipping down and the world beyond the window at his table, waiting impatiently and bouncing his leg nervously to substitute for getting up and running as fast as he can.

Still no Zay. He doesn’t dare check his watch. He knows he got there early, so Zay is probably right on time. He’s not sure he wants to know otherwise.

Blind faith.

It’s an overwhelming relief when Zay finally walks through the door, but it doesn’t last long. He doesn’t match his smile when he spots him sitting in the booth, and as he makes his way over to join him Charlie can tell something is different. Something is off. If he wasn’t anxious enough about all this before, this strangely cold reception from him definitely kicks it up a notch.

He manages to keep his smile as Zay slides into the seat across from him. His leg is still bouncing a mile a minute. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Zay offers, then nothing else. He tugs his lanyard from around his neck, splaying it on the table between them. Focusing on fiddling with it rather than looking at him.

Charlie’s throat feels dry, like the chalk he was using to frantically scribble on his slate board brain. He just sits in the silence for a moment, tense like it hasn’t felt since last spring, feeling all of the hope he had for the afternoon and everything that might follow start to leak out of him.

How is possible he already ruined this conversation before it even started?

“Glad we were able to meet up. I know it was kind of soon, just based on normal… but I just really thought we needed to have a convo. About… things.”

Zay still isn’t looking at him. “No, yeah. For sure.”

“Yeah.” Charlie hates how scratchy his voice sounds, but he can’t bring himself to drink the water he hasn’t touched. His hands are shaking, hidden beneath the table in his lap, and he might spill the water all over himself with his luck. “Do you want to get anything? We could get fries—”

“I think we should probably just get right to it,” Zay says in lieu of answering his question.

Charlie knows he has no experience in this sort of thing, but he thought something like a theoretical relationship upgrade would go a lot less… sharply. It’s confusing, because Zay has never been so curt with him, even in moments where Charlie knows damn well he would have had every right to be. He can’t think of what he could’ve possibly done wrong when he hasn’t even brought up the notion yet—hasn’t yet proven himself worthless with words—when suddenly the likely reason clocks him over the head.

Zay doesn’t want to be with him. He doesn’t want to have this conversation because he doesn’t want to have to reject him. Sure, the summer was fun and everything, at least a fun distraction from the heat. A little something extra for Zay, certainly, considering Charlie knows how good it felt to kiss him, but he doesn’t want anything _serious_. The whole time they’ve been operating on the basis of just trying things, just seeing how it goes, and that always came with the caveat of no strings attached. No expectations. With school impending and Charlie having given just about whatever he has to offer the night of the show, there’s not much else for Zay to be humoring him for.

In fact, given that he has no clue what he’s doing, Charlie would bet that part of the reason he’s not at all interested is _because _of the other night. Seems like a classic Charlie Gardner type miscommunication—to think of this intimate experience as the best thing that’s ever happened to him, only to be oblivious to the reality that he totally humiliated himself.

Still, he already came all the way here. Maybe some of Zay’s infectious confidence is permanently etched in him now, because rather than running for the hills he finds himself deciding he may as well still go through with the conversation he intended to have. If he gets royally rejected, well, then at least he knows. At least he tried, spoke up for once rather than letting every single choice be written for him.

First, though, he thinks he should try to make sure Zay doesn’t hate him now. “Um, is everything okay? You seem a little…”

Zay raises an eyebrow, a barbed silent challenge he’s seen him deliver to Farkle and Maya numerous times in the last two years. _Go ahead. Finish that sentence._

Charlie swallows. “Are you upset? You seem upset.”

“Gee, Charlie, I don’t know. Do you think I’m upset?”

“Um,” he stammers. He can feel himself sweating through his shirt. He hates tests he didn’t prepare for. “Maybe?”

Zay nods, mock impressed. “Wow. You really know how to read a guy.”

“… are you angry with me? What did I do?”

“More like what are you _about_ to do? Why are we here having this conversation, Charlie? Why did you insist we meet so quickly? How do you think this conversation is going to go?”

“I…” Charlie’s heart is pounding so fast he wonders if it’s going to fail on him. He feels a little dizzy, Zay’s image swimming a little bit in front of him, but he can’t tell if it’s from faintness or tears. God, he prays with whatever credit he has left that it’s not tears. “I have no idea what’s happening.”

“You know what, forget it. This is stupid. We could’ve just done this over the phone, I don’t need to sit through it in person.”

Suddenly, Zay is getting up, scooping his lanyard off the table, and Charlie feels his heart stop for half a second. For half a second he’s legally dead, and he gets hit with the very visceral premonition that this is the make or break moment. If Zay leaves, if he walks out that door before he gets to say his piece, then it’s all over. It’s done, no second chances or holy forgiveness.

So Charlie launches to his feet, scrambling after him. “Zay, wait—”

His grabs Zay’s arm, stopping him in his tracks. For whatever reason, the touch is effective in halting time, giving Charlie the chance to rush his brain to catch up and figure out some brilliant fix for whatever he already broke while Zay stands there and stares at their hands. Uncertain, hesitant, like the longer he stands there not pulling away the more likely he is to get burned.

“Please. Please, don’t go.” Charlie licks his lips, glancing around at the other patrons and grateful that none of them are looking at them in that moment. If they were, if they had an audience, he thinks he might disintegrate on the spot. “Just let me talk. One minute. Give me one minute, and then you can go if you want. Just… _please_.”

Zay only contemplates for a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. He lifts his gaze from Charlie’s fingers around his wrist to meet his eyes, searching them for God knows what. Charlie doesn’t think he’s translating anything other than panicked desperation, but if it manages to get him to stay, then he’ll let that pathetic demeanor speak for him.

Finally, Zay lets out an exhale. “One minute,” he states, sliding back into the booth.

Charlie sighs, nodding eagerly and dropping back down opposite him. Only now that he’s earned his one shot, he remembers how he could barely put the words together in a good headspace, and now he’s been totally thrown off his rhythm. He can barely think, staring at Zay expectantly staring at him.

God, he could stare at him forever. He has been for months, up close and from afar, and he can’t imagine never getting the privilege of seeing him again. When they started this whole thing, they promised it wouldn’t change anything—that they’d still have each other. This moment is already far from perfect like he wanted, but he still has to give it his best effort. To salvage their friendship, if nothing else.

But his mouth is so dry he thinks if he talked, chalk dust would come out. He clears his throat, diplomatically locking his hands together on the table. He squeezes them tight to hide the shaking. “Before my minute starts, could I please be allowed a drink of my water?”

Zay blinks, like he can’t believe he’s asking such a stupid question. But then, like a glimmer of hope, Charlie thinks he sees a familiar amused smile ghost over his lips before it disappears again.

“Permission granted. Drink fast.”

Charlie thanks him for the generosity, abiding by his directive and gulping down water like he’s drying out in the desert. Once he’s drained half the glass he places it back on the table between them, keeping his eyes trained on it as long as he can while he adjusts it back onto the perfect condensation ring it left behind. Zay watches him fidget with it, granting him way more patience than one minute, until finally they lock eyes again.

“Time starts now,” Zay says.

He must waste about fifteen seconds just gaping at him, mouth open but no words coming out. As the pressure of his quickly depleting opportunity weighs on him, though, it manages to choke some words out of him. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Zay can’t help but snort. He gives him a look. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, so I don’t know how to do this either. I practiced it so much this weekend, like ran over what I would say a million times in my head and a couple times in the mirror and then in the Uber here—so I’m sure that driver thinks I’m insane. And he’s probably right. But I guess I already messed it up, somehow, so I’m sorry about that. I’m so sorry about whatever I did to make you upset, and I completely understand if you just want to be done with it all. With me. I’ll say my thing, and then you can do whatever feels right for you. I won’t stop you. But I just think that… what I wanted when I said we should meet up earlier, I was just thinking… I thought maybe we should talk about what we… want to be. Now.”

Charlie is certain that took him longer than a minute to say, but Zay doesn’t move. He doesn’t immediately get up to leave him, although if Charlie were him he thinks he would—especially after the thing about talking to himself in the car. But Zay simply looks at him, less closed-off than moments ago, the cool façade replaced with what seems like confusion.

“Are you… asking me what we are?”

Charlie wishes they had ordered French fries. He wishes he could stuff five or six of them in his mouth and choke on them rather than try to articulate his own thoughts. “Um. I think so. Yes.”

For what it’s worth, Zay no longer seems pissed. He seems mostly stunned, like the possibility never occurred to him. Charlie doesn’t know what he could’ve thought this conversation would be about—if he were going to break up with him, as if that’s something he could even manage, he definitely would’ve been a coward and done it over the phone like he said. But he doesn’t seem particularly _enthused_ either, just dumbfounded and a little uncertain, trying to process, and all Charlie can think is he’s thinking of how to kindly turn him down.

“Zay, I…” he starts, trailing off when Zay meets his eyes again. He wishes he could hide behind the water again, like it might give him all the answers or else drown him, but he knows he can’t. He tries to find some of that newfound confidence he acquired this summer again, using what little of it remains in his bones to get out the words he knows he needs to say. Speak now, or forever hold his peace. “I really like you.”

If Zay was stunned earlier, then Charlie doesn’t even know what to call how he looks now. He doesn’t know if it’s because the idea of him liking him is so shocking—he thinks the opposite is way more true, and he hopes that he hasn’t been so clueless the entire summer that his fondness wasn’t detectable at _all_—or because he actually managed to say it.

Now that he’s said it, he feels the rest of it bubbling in his throat like word vomit.

“I really like you. And I know that I don’t know what I’m doing. Like, I don’t know anything, I know I don’t, and I’m sure that has to be... I get why you wouldn’t want to… deal with that. Honestly, I can think of a million reasons you shouldn’t bother, so I’m positive you can come up with a million more. But…” Charlie catches his breath, closing his eyes and trying to sort out his thoughts. “I just think you should consider, in spite of all that, that I think… I think we could be something. Really something.”

Of course this would be the one time Zay feels difficult to read. He’s looking at him, listening intently, and thankfully all of the harsh edges have melted away. But there’s still no clear reaction, no clue like his encouraging smile or thoughtful squint that implies how he might be taking this. But Charlie’s gotten this far, so he figures he may as well finish while he’s laying there exposed.

“I think we would be good together. We already are, but... I know what I want.” He meets his eyes, inhaling a deep breath in the hopes that it buoys him above water long enough to get his last thought out. The only one that really matters, he knows. “Because I like you so much, and I’ve never been more scared of anything in my life.”

The declaration hangs in the air between them, loud in spite of the fact that Charlie could barely manage much more than a whisper when he said it. Zay sits there, eyes no longer on him but on the table between them, the silence settling in around them. No rejection, no affirmation, just… nothing. Nothing but quiet.

After another minute of uncertainty, Charlie can’t take it anymore. He shouldn’t have said anything—he should’ve just let things fizzle out like Zay obviously hoped they would after he humiliated himself. Zay was angry when he first showed up, but now he’s softened because he’s a good person—the best, Charlie knows, and that aches when he thinks about it—and he could never be cruel in rejecting him. So now he’s puzzling over how to do it properly, especially after his embarrassing declaration.

Mess, mess, mess. He supposed this is his punishment for even considering another form of faith. _Message received, God. Thank you so much._

“Sorry. That was so… I don’t know what I’m saying. This is why—this is partially why I called a car, so we didn’t have to… shoot.” Charlie clears his throat, grateful now that they didn’t get fries so he doesn’t have to wait for a bill to escape. He rises from his seat. “I’ll just… I should go. Thank you, though, for coming. And listening. You’re… you’re the best. See you in school.”

Charlie barely makes it past the table before Zay copies his move, reaching out to take his hand as he’s passing him by. On instinct, Charlie pulls away, even though he pulled the same touch not ten minutes ago, glancing around at the other patrons. That trained public aversion burned into his muscle memory, no matter how badly he wishes it wasn’t. Zay simply looks at him, hesitating on that quick display of just how messed up and imperfect Charlie really is. How imperfect he’s destined to be if they pursue anything further, a pointed reminder that this will not be easy regardless of how much they like each other.

Then Zay locks eyes with him, offering the lightest of smiles. “Stay?”

The way he’s looking at him is damn irresistible. Charlie knows he couldn’t escape even if he wanted to. He retreats back to his side of the booth, sitting on his hands to keep them from trembling.

“So first,” Zay says, some of his usual energy returning to his tone. Charlie can’t express how nice it is to hear it, to be free of the defensive, cold reception that was far more terrifying than the prospect of Hell. “I feel the same way. I really like you too.”

He’s feeling light-headed again, but this time it’s for a good reason. Yet he still feels a forewarning ache in his throat, like he’s about to cry, and he once again prays to not completely humiliate himself by sobbing in front of Zay—for good or bad. He already did that once over voicemail; in person would just be too much. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. A lot. And I’m sorry that I was harsh when I first got here. I just didn’t know why you were… what this was going to be like. I’ve been on the receiving end of this once, you know, and that was… whatever. It sucked, and I told myself I wasn’t going to get in that position again… until I got to know you. And after what we did the other night—”

“That was good,” Charlie clarifies. He doesn’t want him to have any misconceptions about it. “That was really good.”

Zay’s tentative smile grows. “I agree. But I didn’t know how you felt, since it was… a lot, and then when you all the sudden wanted to meet up, and you insisted on driving yourself…”

Charlie can see now where his logic was faulty. He can see it, but he still can’t believe it. He feels terrible for making Zay think even for a second that he was bringing him here just to turn him out, but he honestly can’t believe Zay would think _he _would dump _him_. It’s enough of a sharp reality check to warrant the language that slips out of his mouth.

“Oh,_ shit._”

Zay cracks up, playfully impressed with his bold word choice, and just like that the tension dissipates. Charlie feels like he can breathe again, and that hopeful flame that had taken residence in his chest like a hearth, giving him new life, burns a little bit brighter.

But he wants clarity. He needs to know for sure, even if he can’t find the words, that this means what he thinks it means. “So… so if I like you, and you like me—”

“Yes,” Zay says.

“And… and we both don’t want this to end any time soon…”

“No,” Zay agrees, smiling.

“Then does that mean… I mean, are we… we’d be…”

Zay can tell Charlie isn’t going to be able to say it, but he doesn’t seem annoyed. Instead, he flags down a waitress as she skirts by them, asking politely if he can borrow her pen. Then he pulls a napkin from the dispenser at the end of their table, scribbling on it and occasionally glancing up to smirk at him while he works.

Charlie frees his hands as the napkin slides across the table to sit in front of him, inviting him to take a look. He makes eye contact with Zay, trapped between nerves and excitement. He pulls the napkin into his lap and gently unfolds it under the table, making its grand reveal something for his eyes only.

It’s exactly what he thought it would be, and yet it still knocks the wind out of him. The ache in his throat throbs pointedly.

_Boyfriend._

And then they’re something new. Just like that. They’re not just Zay, and Charlie, but Zay and Charlie, and Charlie doesn’t think there’s anything else he’d rather be.

He lifts his gaze, incredibly grateful to find Zay’s dazzling smile waiting for him. He wonders if he realizes how important he is, how life-changing a single person can be, how everything that’s happened this summer and this thing that they share and the word cradled in his hands felt unreal just weeks ago. That now, because of him, Charlie is achieving the impossible.

They don’t comment on it further that afternoon, finishing out brunch at the diner as if his entire life didn’t just flip on its head. They order French fries to celebrate, laugh about how silly they both were to be so nervous at the start of all this, share predictions about how their return to AAA for junior year is going to go. Zay lightly taps on his shoes under the table, making his legs tingle. When Zay offers to drive Charlie home, now that the crisis has been averted, he accepts in spite of his noble intent to save him gas money, because all he wants is to live in this moment a little longer. To spend as much time as he possibly can with his boyfriend.

Boyfriend. God. Zay Babineaux is his _boyfriend._

Zay drops him off at the end of the block like usual, not complaining at all when Charlie leans across the median to pull him into a kiss. It’s crazy to think that they’re allowed to do that now, more so than before at least, that sharing kisses is something that belongs to them. Zay steals another one off of him and strokes his cheek, promising him he’ll call him later.

Their first call as boyfriends. Charlie tries not to think of everything in those terms, but he can’t help himself. He still isn’t convinced he’s not dreaming.

He avoids the sound of his family congregated in the living room together and makes a bee line for his room as soon as he steps back inside, needing the time to process on his own. He opts for the fresh air and sits out on his balcony, pulling the napkin out of his pocket and staring at the word scratched into it in Zay’s messy scrawl.

It’s not a surprise when he starts crying, but he’s surprised by how _good _it feels. The tears aren’t from anguish but from so many emotions he can’t articulate but knows he needs—relief, shock, definitely joy. So much joy, pure concentrate, that he feels like it’s going to burn him up from the inside out. But he just rides the wave, clutching the napkin close to his chest and experiencing it all for what it is. Not an end, but a beginning. The beginning of the rest of his life, finally the way he actually wants it.

Maybe it wasn’t such a terrible summer after all.


End file.
